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MARY 

LEE 




























NEW BORZOI NOVELS 
FALL , IQ22 

The Quest 
Pio Baroja 
The Room 
G. B. Stern 
One of Ours 
Willa Cather 
A Lovely Day 
Henry Ceard 
Mary Lee 

Geoffrey Dennis 
Tutors’ Lane 
Wilmarth Lewis 
The Promised Isle 
Laurids Bruun 
The Return 

Walter de la Mare 
The Bright Shawl 
Joseph Hergesheimer 
The Moth Decides 
Edward Alden Jewell 
Indian Summer 
Emily Grant Hutchings 





I 


COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. 


Published , August , 1922 






f 





Bet up , electrotmed, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. 
Paper (Warren’s) furnished by Henry Lindenmeyr & Sons, New York, N. Y. 
Bound by the Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass. 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

SEP -8 1922 v 

CUI.A683JL29 
onC V 



CONTENTS 


PART ONE 

I I am Born 3 

II Bear Lawn 14 

III Child of Privilege 24 

IV I go to Meeting 36 

V I go to School 55 

VI Cheese, Lumps, Crewjoe, the Scarlet Wo- 
man and the Great God Benamuckee 73 

VII The End of the World 87 

VIII Satan Comes to Tawborough 95 

IX And so Does Uncle Simeon 101 

X Old Letters 120 

XI Extraordinary Meeting for Prayer, Praise 

and Purging 135 

XII The Great Disclosure 144 

XIII 1 go to Torribridge 158 

XIV I Become Curious 172 

XV Westward Ho! 179 

XVI Robbie 192 

XVII Christmas Night 206 

XVIII New Year’s Night 223 

XIX Bear Lawn Again 233 

XX Diary 243 

XXI I Am Baptized in Jordan 253 


CONTENTS 


XXII The Return of the Stranger 265 

XXIII Wine that Maketh Glad the Heart of 

Woman 282 

XXIV Prospects 301 

XXV I say Good-bye 312 

PART TWO 

XXVI Chateau Villebecq 319 

XXVII Mary the Second 327 

XXVIII Laying-on of Hands 336 

XXIX Happy Family 340 

XXX Cardboard 356 

XXXI Way of an Eagle in the Air 362 

XXXII Paree! 370 

XXXIII I Become an Heiress 377 

XXXIV I, Become a Daughter 381 

XXXV Way of a Serpent upon a Rock 386 

XXXVI The Stranger within the Gates 389 

XXXVII Way of a Ship in the Midst of the Sea 393 

XXXVIII Deathbed 408 

XXXIX End of Three Visions: The Stranger’s 412 

XL End of Three Visions: Napoleon’s 420 

XLI End of Three Visions: Mine 424 

XLII Twin Deathbeds 427 

XLIII One Long Percession o’ Deathbeds 431 

XLIV Christmas Night 434 

XLV Way of a Man with a Maid 439 


PART 

ONE 






CHAPTER I: I AM BORN 


I was born at Tawborough on March the Second, 1848. 

It seems to have been a great year in the history books. 
Fires of revolution sweeping over Europe; half the capitals 
aflame. From Prague to Palermo, from Paris to Pesth, the 
peoples rising against their rulers. Wars and rumours of 
wars; civil strife everywhere. Radicals in Prussia, revolu- 
tionaries in Italy, rebels in Austria, republicans in France. 
Even in old England we had our chartists. 

All such troubles failed to touch Tawborough. What did 
she know of it all, or care if she knew? She was a good old 
peaceful English country town, with her own day’s work to do. 
The great world might go its way for all she cared — a wild 
and noisy way it seemed. She would go hers. 

Not that Tawborough had always been without a say in 
England’s affairs. She had indeed a long and honourable 
history. At the dawn of time there was a settlement in the 
marshes where the little stream of Yeo empties itself into the 
Taw: a primitive village of wattled huts, known to the Britons 
as Artavia. The Phoenicians record the name for us, and 
describe the place as a great mart for their commerce. Here 
the tin of the western mines was bartered against the rich prod- 
ucts of the East: camphire and calamus, spikenard and 
saffron, fine linen and purple silk. This was the origin of 
Tawborough market, which is the first in Devonshire to this 
day. Artavia seems to have been an important seat of the old 
British worship. The see of the Arch-Druid of the West was 
near at hand in the Valley of the Rocks at Lynton; from the 
sacred oak-groves above the Taw on a clear day the Druids 
could see the fires of the great altar on the Promontory of 
Hercules — Hartland Point they call it now. 

Religion, indeed, in one way or another, seems to have 
coloured most of the big events of the town’s history. The 
next great fight was between pagans and Christian men. 

3 


4 


MARY LEE 


It was the foeman from the North, threatening the men of 
Wessex with desolation. One day the terrified townsfolk 
heard clanging in their ears the great ivory horns of the North- 
men, and beheld the blood-red banners sailing up the Taw. 
One of the standards had upon it a Raven. Then the English- 
men knew their foe for the wild Hubba, King of the Vikings; 
since the Raven floated always at his mast. The banner was of 
crimson. It had been worked by the King’s three sisters in a 
noontide and blessed by a strange Icelandic wizard, who en- 
dowed the Raven sewn upon it with this magical gift: that she 
clapped her wings to announce success to the Viking arms, and 
drooped them to presage failure. Never till this day had the 
black wings drooped; they drooped this winter’s morning. 
So the English took heart. Odin, Earl of Devon, sallied forth 
from Kenwith Castle, defeated and slew King Hubba, and 
captured the magic banner. Then came peace for a while. 
King Alfred, full of piety, came to Tawborough and set up the 
great Mound by the Castle. King Athelstan gave the town a 
charter, and housed himself in a magnificent palace at Umber - 
leigh hard by. 

In the wake of the Normans came the religious orders. The 
Cluniacs built a monastery in the town, the Benedictines an- 
other at Pilton just outside. With the monks came light and 
learning, better lives and milder ways. Tawborough became 
rich and prosperous. Her trade excelled that of Bristol. Her 
fair and market were famous “tyme out of mynde.” For many 
years the Taw — that “greate, hugy, mighty, perylous and dred- 
ful water” — became a highway for the ships of all nations. 

When the New World was found, Englishmen sailed west for 
glory. Devon led the way, Tawborough men among the fore- 
most, and Tawborough ships did valiant deeds against the 
Invincible Armada. Those were the great days of England. 
The townsfolk were all for the new religion. Spaniard and 
Papist were twin-children of the devil. A murrain on both! 
They favoured the Puritan party in the civil wars, stood out 
against the rest of the county, and shouted for the Parliament. 
Though when the Royalists took the town and gay Prince 
Charles made it his headquarters, the townspeople were 
charmed with His Merry Highness; and he, as he told Lord 
Clarendon, with them. All the courtiers were of the same 


I AM BORN 


5 


mind. Lord Clarendon himself declared that Tawborough was 
“a very fine sweet town as ever I saw,” while Lady Fanshawe 
thought that the cherry pies they made there “with their sort of 
cream” were the best things that man, or woman, could eat. 
Gay John Gay, who wrote the Beggar’s Opera, showed to the 
world the fair and likeable character of his native town, which 
at heart, however, was always of the godly serious-minded 
quality, Puritan to the core. No town in England gave a 
warmer welcome to the poor Huguenots, who were flying from 
King Lewis. One Sunday morning as the townsfolk were com- 
ing forth from Church they saw against the sky — not this time 
the scarlet banners of the North — the brown sails of an old 
French schooner, bearing up the Taw a band of exiled French 
Puritans, weary and wretched after their voyage. Tawborough 
found every one of them a home. In return the grateful 
Frenchmen taught the natives new ways of cloth-weaving, 
which sent the fame of Tawborough Bays through all the land. 

Later came a change, a new century, the reign of King Coal ; 
and Tawborough, like many another historic Western town, 
sank into comparative decay. What did the new industrial 
cities know of such as her, or care if they knew? For her 
part, she was indifferent to their ignorance or their indifference 
alike. She was a good old English country town with her 
own day’s work to do. Troubles, invasions, vicissitudes had 
assailed her before. New blood, Saxon, Danish, Norman, 
Huguenot had coursed through her veins. Her dead had 
buried their dead. The people pass, the place alone is 
abiding. . . . Abiding, yet not eternal; for there comes the 
day when the old earth will fall into the sun. . . . Mean- 
while, Town Tawborough had her daily life to live, her towns- 
folk had theirs. 

Two of them, indeed, were living theirs with plenty of zest, 
somewhere in the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Jael 
and Hannah Vickary were the daughters of an old sea-captain, 
Ebenezer Vickary of Torribridge. He and his brother had 
three or four vessels of their own, trading with the Indies in 
sugar and molasses, or with the Spanish Main, as it then still 
was, in logwood and mahogany. The brother died in Cuba of 
the yellow fever. Soon afterwards Ebenezer gave up the sea, 


6 


MARY LEE 


settled down in Tawborough, and died in his time. He left 
his two daughters enough money to live upon in the quiet 
style of those days, together with a big dwelling house by the 
old North Gate. Here Jael and Hannah Vickary lived alone, 
with an old servant whose years were unknown and unnum- 
bered, and whose wages were six pounds a year. They had a 
few friends and visitors, faithful women of the Parish Church, 
chief among whom were the Other Six of “the Seven Old Maids 
of Tawborough.” By a strange coincidence seven female 
children had been born in Tawborough on August the First 
1785, all of whom had risen to be devout handmaidens of the 
Lord in the work of the Parish Church, shining lights around 
the central figure of the Vicar, and all of whom had dwin- 
dled into a sure spinsterhood. “We are the wise virgins,” said 
Jael Vickary, their leader and spiritual chief, in whom the 
scorn of all menfolk except the Vicar (who had a meek wife 
and twelve children) amounted to a prophet’s passion. This 
passion was shared in various degrees by the Other Six, to wit : 
Miss Lucy Clarke, Miss Fanny Baker, Miss Keturah Crabb, 
Miss Sarah Tombstone, and last but not least the Heavenly 
Twins, the Misses Glory and Salvation Clinker. The Twins 
were the only regular visitors at Northgate House. There 
were a few others, no relatives among them. Jael and Hannah 
had indeed an elder brother, John: Ebenezer’s only son. He 
had gone to London as a boy, worked his way up in a whole- 
sale sugar house in the City, and become passing rich. His 
sisters were kept aware of his existence only by receiving 
occasional presents and more occasional letters. He never 
married. Thus it was that his death, if nothing so crude as a 
self-acknowledged source of financial hope to Miss Jael, would 
nevertheless have been borne by her with true Christian 
fortitude. 

If alike in a salt and shrewdness of personality unknown to 
our end of the century, in most ways the two sisters differed 
as much as two human beings can. Miss Jael was hard, 
Miss Hannah kindly; Miss Jael stern, Miss Hannah gentle; 
Miss Jael was feared, Miss Hannah loved. Though Hannah 
was less than eighteen months her sister’s junior, this un- 
bridgeable gulf enabled Miss Jael throughout life to refer to 
Miss Hannah as “a young woman,” and to treat her accord- 


I AM BORN 


7 


ingly. Then, behold, in the year 1822, when both were nearer 
forty than thirty, the Young Woman brazenly gave ear to the 
suit of one Edward Lee, an old sea-captain, who had sailed 
under her father, and was twenty years her senior. Jael 
mocked (Why did he choose her? asked her heart bitterly) ; 
yet stayed on at Northgate House, when Captain Lee came to 
live there, to bully and bludgeon the dear old man into his 
grave. This procedure took but five years. The old man 
died, leaving to his widow two little girls and a boy: Rachel, 
Martha and Christian. 

In the godlier activities of Tawborough life Jael and her 
widowed sister were leading lights, with the parish church as 
General Headquarters of their operations. Miss Jael was the 
vicar’s right-hand man. She ran his poor club, his guild, his 
Dorcas-meeting, effacing completely the meek many-chil- 
drened little lady of the Rectory. He thought her a queen 
among women, a tower set upon a rock. 

All this was in the twenties and thirties of the century, ere 
yet the Church of England had taken her earliest step on the 
swift steep path to Rome. The same wave of evangelical 
fervour that had swelled Wesley’s great following had strength- 
ened also the Church from which they broke away. This fer- 
vour, whether Methodist or Established, did not however go 
nearly far enough for certain pious souls, especially in the 
West country, who formed themselves into little bodies for 
the Worship of God in the strictest and simplest Gospel 
fashion. “They continued steadfastly in the apostles’ doctrine 
and fellowship, and in breaking of bread, and in prayer.” 
They called themselves the Saints, or more modestly the 
Brethren. Outsiders called them the Plymouth Brethren — 
they flourished in the great seaport — or more profanely, the 
Plymouth Rocks. They were drawn from all communions 
and no communion, if principally from the Established 
Church; from all classes and conditions, the humbler trades- 
folk perhaps predominating. In Tawborough they were 
especially active. From the days of the primitive Druids 
away through the long story of missionaries and monks, sea- 
faring Protestants and Huguenot exiles, here was a town that 
took her religion neat. She preferred the good Calvin 
flavouring, and thus it was that the Plymouth evangel sent up 


8 


MARY LEE 


a savoury smell in her nostrils. There were literally hundreds 
of converts. The Parish Church lost some of its leading 
members. Arose the cry “The Church in danger!”; and of all 
who responded, most valiant was the Vicar’s right-hand man. 
She stemmed the tide of deserters with loins girt for battle. 
Like St. Paul, she breathed out threatenings and slaughter 
against the new sect. She encouraged the faithful, visited the 
wavering, anathematized deserters. To crown her efforts she 
counselled the vicar to summon a great Church Defence 
Meeting in the Parish Room, to rally and re-affirm the con- 
fidence of the faithful. The Vicar agreed. The hour of 
commencement saw a right goodly and godly assembly fore- 
gathered together. On the platform sat a Canon of Exeter, 
the old Marquess of Exmoor, several county bigwigs, the 
Mayor and the Churchwardens. Seven o’clock struck, the 
Vicar was about to open the proceedings, everything was 
ready — except — except that two honoured places on the plat- 
form (in those days a place on a platform was for a woman 
an honour indeed) were not yet occupied. Miss Vickary and 
her sister were late. The Vicar hesitated. There was a dis- 
tinguished company, true: but start the meeting without its 
guiding spirit — never! Give her five minutes. . . . Some one 
handed the Vicar an envelope. He opened it, read through 
the contents, and fainted then and there. 

How the reverend gentleman was brought round from his 
swoon by the joint endeavours of the Canon, the Marquess, two 
Churchwardens, nine ladies and a bottle of sal-volatile; how 
the great Church Defence Meeting fizzled to an inglorious end ; 
and how Jael Vickary and Hannah Lee were baptized in the 
Taw in the presence of three thousand five hundred spectators, 
there is no need to relate here. The facts were well enough 
known to the older generation in the town. Some say that 
the Vicar made a last despairing effort to retain his apostate 
right-hand man; that, with tears in his eyes, he went down on 
his knees before her. If so, as Hannah wickedly said, he 
was the only man who ever did so, and in any case he 
achieved nothing. On the contrary The Great Betrayal 
encouraged wholesale desertions. The Other Six deserted en 
masse. 

Henceforward Jael Vickary ’s life was occupied with two 


I AM BORN 


9 


main things: building up the new sect, and bringing up her 
sister’s family. She filled the vacant post of father with 
thoroughness and vigour. Her method was the rod, or to be 
accurate the thorned stick, and a horrible weapon it was. 
Hannah approved the method in moderation, though she 
could never have applied it herself. Much of her life, indeed, 
was spent in protecting her children from her sister. Rachel, 
the eldest, was best beloved. She was a sweet, gentle child; 
bright, tender and gay. Martha was quieter, even morose. 
Christian was a peevish child, weak and ailing from birth. 
With no husband to help her, and her sister on the scold from 
morn till night, Hannah Lee’s life was not an easy one. She 
gave her two daughters the best schooling in Devonshire, as 
schooling for girls went in those days; so that when they grew 
up they were able to take positions as governesses in the best 
families of the county. Rachel went to Woolthy Hall to 
teach Guy, the Lord Tawborough’s five year old heir. Martha 
was employed by the Groves, of Grove House near Exeter, to 
begin the education of their daughter. The two girls’ attain- 
ments and appearance explained their good fortune. Rachel 
in particular was a refined and attractive young woman, with 
bright eyes, a peerless skin, and a gentle winning expression. 
Dressed oftenest in a dove-coloured cotton robe, she had a Qua- 
kerish charm, simple yet sure. 

Hannah was left alone at Tawborough with Jael and young 
Christian. As the years passed, life turned greyer. When 
the Devon and Three Counties’ Bank collapsed, nearly half the 
household income disappeared. Jael’s imperiousness grew 
"with her years, while her temper soured. Christian was in a 
decline, dying slowly before his mother’s eyes. Then came 
Martha’s marriage. She had fallen in with one Simeon 
Greeber, a retired chemist, who lived over at Torribridge — the 
Taw’s twin-river’s port, and Tawborough’s immemorial rival. 
This Greeber was the local leader of the extreme wing of the 
Saints, the Close or Exclusive Brethren; a man twice Martha 
Lee’s age, and one who filled her aunt and her mother with 
a special sense of dislike and mistrust. Against their will 
she married him, gave up her excellent post with the Grove 
family, and went to live at Torribridge. 

Hannah’s consolation was always Rachel, whom she loved 


10 


MARY LEE 


most dearly. Then, in its turn, came Rachel’s marriage. 

At Woolthy Hall the young governess had come into contact 
with Lord Tawborough’s cousin, Mr. Philip Traies, who was a 
frequent if not welcome guest. He had served in the Navy, 
but had left the service under doubtful circumstances. He 
had led a scandalous life and earned a reputation to match it. 
A clear-cut handsome mouth set in a proud aristocratic face, 
a fine bearing, a fine speech, and an honoured name, deluded 
many and were his own undoing. In ill odour with his family 
and his Maker, he decided to come to terms with the latter. 
At the age of forty, he joined the Plymouth Brethren. When 
the Devil turns saint he does a very sharp round-about, and 
no withered Anglo-Indian colonel who communed with the 
Saints in his dotage to ensure himself as gay a time in the 
next world as he had passed in this, ever excelled Mr. Philip 
Traies in fervour and piety. He worshipped occasionally 
with the Tawborough Saints, who were duly honoured. Some- 
times here, and sometimes at his cousin’s, he met Rachel Lee, 
at this time a girl of twenty-one. He bestowed upon her the 
favour of eager kindly patronage, as such men will; though if 
she were beneath him in station, and his equal in manners 
and good looks, she was far above him in everything else: 
goodness and purity and wholeness of heart. Quite how it 
happened nobody knew; but one day Rachel came home from 
Woolthy Hall, and said to her mother, “I am going to marry 
Mr. Philip Traies.” 

Hannah entreated. A “good” match with a bad man had no 
attraction for her. She pleaded with Rachel. Aunt Jael 
would not stoop to plead; she gave her niece instead a plain 
outline of Mr. Philip Traies’ past. 

“I know,” said the girl, and murmured something about 
“reforming” him. 

Neither mother nor aunt achieved her surrender. Plead- 
ing and plain-speaking did nothing, nor ever do. The wed- 
ding took place at the registry office, as in those days the 
Brethren’s Meeting Houses were not licensed for solemniza- 
tion of marriages, and neither bride nor bridegroom would en- 
ter a church or chapel: temples of Antichrist. Hannah sat 
through the ceremony with a queer sense of foreboding, of 
sickness, and coming sorrow; an order of sentiment which, 


I AM BORN 11 

as a sensible Devon woman with no tomfool tombstone fancies 
ever in her head, in sixty years she had not known. Immedi- 
ately after the ceremony, at the registry office door, the bride- 
groom suddenly loosened himself from the bride’s arm, and 
walked sharply away without saying a word. Nobody knew 
why. Everybody stared. The wedding breakfast at North- 
gate House began without him. They waited; he did not come. 
After an hour the tension became unbearable. The guests 
whispered in groups; Rachel and her mother bore already on 
their brows the sorrow of the years to come. Aunt Jael’s 
face was a gloomy triumphant “I told you so.” Pastries 
were nibbled, wine was sipped; the joy-feast continued. 
After nearly two hours a bell rang, and the bridegroom 
appeared. 

“Your explanation?” asked Hannah. Rachel dared not 
look. 

“Oh, I had another woman to see. A glass of sherry please. 
Besides, it amused me.” 

He took her away to his house at Torquay. Their married 
life was wretched from the start. Among many evil passions 
these two predominated in Mr. Philip Traies: desire and 
cruelty. Here was a lovely and gentle girl who would satisfy 
both. The first was soon appeased (shattering love in her 
heart once and for all), the second never. Cruelty is insa- 
tiable. With this man it was a devouring passion. It is doubt- 
ful perhaps if he was sane. Taunts, foulness, sneers. ... He 
starved her sometimes, taunted her with her lowlier birth, 
engaged the servants on the condition of ill-treating their 
mistress, dismissed them if they wavered. All the time he 
talked religion. The knees of his elegant trousers were thread- 
bare with prayer. He could fit a text to every taunt. Then 
a baby-boy came to cheer the sinking heart. A few hours 
after the child was born, when the young mother lay in the 
agony and weakness she alone can know, Mr. Philip Traies 
entered the room — with a gentler word to-day surely? — no, 
with this: “So this is how you keep your fine promises to 
make a good lady of the house, a busy housewife and the rest 
of it” — he raised his voice savagely — “idling in bed at four 
in the afternoon. Get up , you idle bitch!” Leaning over the 
end-rail, he spat in her face. 


12 MARY LEE 

The baby soon died. He taunted her with nursing it badly ; 
and doubled every cruelty he knew save blows. 

“Strike me,” she said once. 

Her patience was a fool’s, a saint’s, a loving woman’s; her 
goodness, if not her spirits, unfailing. In writing home she 
made the best of things. But her heart was broken, her spirit 
wasting away. 

“Why did you marry me?” she asked. 

“To break your spirit,” was the amused reply. 

“Then your marriage has fulfilled its purpose,” she said 
wearily. “My spirit is broken. Now I can go home.” 

That night she wrote to Hannah. The letter is faded, and 
stained with three women’s tears, wife’s, mother’s, daughter’s. 
“Dearest Mother,” she wrote, “I am ill and weary. Another 
little child is coming, but I may not live for it to be born. 
I can leave him without failing in my wife’s duty now, for 
the end is very near. I am coming home to die. Your loving 
broken-hearted Daughter.” 

Next day she packed for home. 

“Deserting me, are you? Fine Jezebel ways! A good 
Christian wifely thing to do, I’m sure. I thought we were 
proud of doing our duty.” 

His sneers did not move her now. She was going home to 
die. 

Northgate House was a dismal place to return to. It was 
a wet cheerless winter. Hannah was tired and heart-sore. 
Christian was dying. Jael was evil-tempered, scolding 
harshly: her comfort to her mother and daughter was still “I 
told you so.” Rachel went straight to bed. In a few days 
Christian died, a sickly pitiful boy of twenty. “It is the 
Lord’s will,” said his mother. Hannah had everything to do, 
for Simeon Greeber would not let Martha come over from 
Torribridge, and Jael took to her bed with a convenient fit of 
the ague. Faith in the eternal love of God was Hannah’s 
only stay. Always, ever, “It was the Lord’s will.” This suf- 
ficed her, though the times were bitter. The day after Chris- 
tian’s funeral was wet and wintry: March the Second 1848. 
Rachel was twenty-four. Three years ago she had been a 
happy healthy girl. Now she was a dying broken woman. 
The morning of that day she gave birth to a daughter. Then 


I AM BORN 13 

she was very weak. Her eyes closed, yet she seemed to see 
something. 

“What do you see, Rachel, my dear?” asked her mother. 
The spirit was already half away, looking through the 
golden gates of Heaven. 

“There is a little angel born. I see her in God’s cradle. 
My little angel, God’s little angel. I shall be with her 
always — though far away. I see . . . the King in His 
beauty ... I behold the land . . . that is very far off.” 

Her face was radiant as a lover’s, yet sad as Love is. 
Hannah could not reply. The dying woman seemed to sleep. 
Her mother watched. An hour passed. Rachel opened her 
eyes. 

“Mother.” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“Love my little baby for me; -and — tell him — I forgive 
him.” The eyes closed, this time for ever. 

My poor mother. 


CHAPTER II: BEAR LAWN 


My first memory in this life is of a moving. I am sitting 
in a high chair, kept in by a stick placed through a hole in 
each arm. I am surrounded by the utmost disarray. In front 
of me is an old sponge-bath, crammed full of knick-knacks 
and drawing-room ornaments. I stretch out my hands yearn- 
ingly, acquisitively, and make signs of wrenching from its 
offensive gaolerlike position the stick which bars my way. 
My Grandmother coaxes me to keep it in, and uses the words 
she is to use so often later on — words which will punctuate 
my daily life in days to come: 

“Don’t ’ee do it, my dear. Sit ’ee still and give no trouble. 
Ye’ll tumble and hurt yourself, so leave the stick alone. Don’t 
’ee do it.” 

“If she don’t, I’ll take it out myself and lay it about her,” 
comes another voice, which is to punctuate as regularly and 
much more raucously my early doings. And Aunt Jael shakes 
her fist, and lowers at me. 

Perhaps I don’t really remember the trifling incident. 
Most likely I only remember that I remember. It is a photo- 
graph of a photograph, smudged by the fingers of Time. Yet 
I see as clearly as ever the dark room in disarray, my 
Grandmother kind and coaxing, Aunt Jael threatening and 
harsh. The memory is clearer because Time has not blurred 
but rather sharpened it. I grew up the gauge of an unequal 
battle between Grandmother and Great-Aunt. Moving-day is 
merely the moment in which my infant intelligence first 
caught news of the struggle. 

At this time I must have been about three years old, for it 
was some three years after my mother’s death that we moved 
from the High Street, aM: the time when — I think it was in 1852 
— the old North Gate was removed, and our house pulled down. 
Our new house was Number Eight, Bear Lawn. The Lawn was 
a biggish patch of grass with houses on both sides. At the far 
end from the road it merged into a steep grassy bank, crowned 

14 


BEAR LAWN 


15 


with poplars, which allowed no egress. At the near end a 
big iron gate barred us off from the plebeian houses of Bear 
Street, to which the Lawn mansions felt themselves notably 
superior. 

The Lawn lay to the right of the street some little way out of 
the town. In reality it was an old barrack-square, “converted.” 
The houses on each side of it were barracks put up during the 
French Revolutionary Wars. When Boney was beaten and 
the soldiers sent away, an enterprising builder turned the 
barracks into two terraces of houses, and sowed the barrack- 
square with grass seed. Bear Lawn became one of the most 
elegant quarters of Tawborough, a quiet preserve of genteel 
habitation; though the houses never quite lost their barrack 
quality. They were too square and bare and big to be truly 
genteel. And too ro'omy. 

Number Eight was one of the squarest and barest. 

It was gloomy. How far the aspect it will always bear in 
my mind may be a reflection of the dark and unhappy days I 
spent there, and how far it was real, I cannot ever say. It 
was a house of big empty corridors, dark bare spaces, and an 
incommunicable dreariness that somehow stilled you as you 
crossed the doorstep. There was none of the cosy warmth that 
makes so many dark old houses a homely joy to the senses and 
a warm fragrance for the memory. It had the silence in it 
that only large empty spaces can create, did not seem inhabited, 
and smelt of coffins, I used to think. Even in summer there 
was a suggestion of damp and cold and bleakness, and always 
there was the silence which made me wait — and listen. 

Downstairs there were three big rooms: Aunt Jael’s, the 
dining-room and the kitchen. Aunt Jael’s was the front one. 
The door was always unlocked, yet the key was left on the 
outside of the door, and I was forbidden to enter. Like Mrs. 
Bluebeard (of whom I had never heard) or our first mother 
Eve (in the knowledge of whom I grew to understanding), I 
felt that prohibition made perfect; and the forbidden room 
attracted me beyond .all others. I visited it usually in the 
afternoon, when the thunder and trumpets of Aunt Jael’s after- 
dinner doze in the dining-room announced that the road was 
clear. The blinds were always drawn, winter and summer 
alike; and the windows closed. The room seemed filled with 


16 


MARY LEE 


a dull yellowish kind of mist, the ochre-coloured blind toning 
the darkness, and just permitting you to see a yellowish carpet 
and dull yellowish furniture. A row of dismal plants, stand- 
ing in saucers on the floor, filled the bay window. There was 
a great oak sideboard, stuffed with Aunt Jael’s preserves and 
pickles; though it was long before I had the courage and the 
opportunity to ransack it thoroughly. The walls were covered 
with spears and daggers, trophies of the Gospel in distant 
lands. In a corner reposed the supreme trophy, a huge 
wooden god, sitting with arms akimbo. His votaries (until 
salvation, in the person of Brother Immanuel Greeber, had 
turned them from their ways) dwelt, I believe, in the Society 
Islands; though he looked for all the world like a Buddha, 
with his painless impenetrable eyes and his smile of changeless 
calm. In his dark unwholesome corner he dominated the 
room. The yellow mist was incense in his nostrils. 

The middle room we called the dining-room, though Aunt 
Jael favoured “back parlour.” Here we lived and prayed and 
ate, and here a large part of this story took place. The win- 
dow overlooked our small backyard, which being flanked by 
out-houses gave little light; so this room too was dark, though 
not as dark as Aunt Jael’s, since the blinds were not usually 
drawn. It was more barely furnished. There was the table, 
a chiffonier, a side-board, a bookcase, and two principal 
chairs: a “gentleman’s” armchair to the left of the fireplace, 
with two big arms; and a “lady’s,” armless, to the right. One 
was comfortable, the other was not. One was Aunt Jael’s, 
the other was my Grandmother’s. There were four bedrooms 
on the first floor, and I must note their strategic positions. 
Aunt Jael’s was the first on the right, my own the second; we 
were over the dining-room and surveyed the backyard. My 
Grandmother’s chamber, the first on the left, and the spare- 
room beyond it overlooked the Lawn. At the half-landing 
above was Mrs. Cheese’s bedroom, while the top of the house 
consisted of an enormous whitewashed attic, lighted by an un- 
washed skylight and suffused by a cold bluish gloom that con- 
trasted queerly with the foggy yellow of the front room down- 
stairs yet excelled it in silent cheerlessness. Here I would 
spend hours, or whole days, either of my .own free will, that I 
might moon and mope to my heart’s content, and talk aloud to 


BEAR LAWN 17 

myself without fear of mocking audience; or perforce, ban- 
ished by the frequent judgment of Aunt Jael. 

It was our moving into this house that supplies my first 
earthly memory. My first important — dramatic, historic — re- 
membrance must date from several months later, when I was 
nearly four years old. The scene was our evening reading of 
the Word. We were sitting in our usual positions round the 
dining-room fire after supper. 

To the left of the chimney-piece, in the big black horsehair 
chair — the comfortable one, the one with sides and arms — sat 
my Great-Aunt Jael. This was her permanent post. From this 
coign of vantage she issued ukases, thundered commands, 
hurled anathemas and brandished her sceptre — that thorned 
stick of whose grim and governmental qualities I have the 
fullest knowledge of any soul (or body) on earth. She was a 
short, stout, stocky, strong-looking woman, yet bent; when 
walking, bent sometimes almost double. Leaning on her awful 
stick, she looked the old witch she was. Peaky black cap 
surmounting beetling black brows and bright black eyes, 
wrinkled swarthy skin, beaky nose, a hard mouth whiskered 
like a man’s, and a harder chin: feature for feature, she was 
the witch of the picture-books. All her dresses, silk, serge or 
bombazine, were black. On the night I speak of, an ordinary 
week-night, she was dressed in her oldest serge. The great 
Holy Bible on her knees might have been some unholy wizard’s 
tome. 

To the right of the chimney-piece sat my Grandmother. She 
resembled her sister in feature; the character of the face was 
as different as is heaven from hell. This indeed was the very 
quality of the difference, and I had a fancy that they were the 
same face, one given to God, the other sold to Satan. My 
Grandmother had the same beaky nose and nut-cracker face. 
Her mouth and chin were firm, but kind instead of cruel. Her 
skin was milk-white instead of swarthy, her caps were of white 
lace. Her eyes were as bright as my Great-Aunt’s, but bright 
with kindliness instead of menace. Her whole face spoke of 
goodwill to others and perfect peace. It was a sweet old face. 

I love it still. 

In the middle, facing the fire, sat Mrs. Cheese. She was a 
farmer’s daughter and widow from near South Molton; and 


18 


MARY LEE 


looked it. She was short, fat and ruddy; a few years younger 
than her mistresses, perhaps at this time a woman of sixty. 

I myself crouched on a little stool between Mrs. Cheese and 
Aunt Jael; but nearer the latter, that I might be watched, 
and cuffed, with ease. On this particular evening, my heart 
was hot with rage against Aunt Jael, who had flogged me and 
locked me in the attic: I don’t remember what for. She 
ordered me more sternly than usual not to dare to move my 
eyes from her face as she read the nightly portion from the 
Word of God. To-night it was from her favourite Proverbs, 
the thirtieth chapter: the words of Agur the son of Jakeh, 
even the prophecy; the words the man spake unto Ithiel, even 
unto Ithiel and Ucal. 

Aunt Jael read, or rather declaimed the Word, in a harsh 
staccato way; not without a certain power, especially in the 
dourer passages of Proverbs or the dismaller in Job or Lamen- 
tations. In one of her favourite Psalms, the eighteenth or the 
sixty-eighth, reeking with battle and revenge, and bespattered 
with the blood of the enemies of Jehovah, her voice would 
rise to a dark triumphal shout, terrible as an army with ban- 
ners. This evening I looked sullenly at the floor as she 
boomed forth the words of Agur, determined not to fix my eyes 
on her face at any rate until Stick coaxed me. Suddenly my 
eyes were transfixed to the floor. A gigantic cockroach was 
crawling about near my feet. I wanted to cry out but managed 
to contain myself until, behold, the creature crawled away 
from my left foot towards the leg of Aunt Jael’s chair, reached 
the chair leg, began to climb it with resolution. I watched, 
half in fascination, half in fear. It reached the level of the 
horsehair upholstery. Aunt Jael had reached verse thirteen. 

“Their eyelids are lifted up.” She looked meaningly at me. 

Fortunately my eyelids were by this time well lifted up, as 
the beetle was now half way up the chair, approaching the 
awful place where Aunt Jael’s shoulder touched the uphol- 
stery. No — yes: it crawled on to the arm, and mounted her 
sleeve right up to the shoulder. Righteous revenge for her 
cruelty and harshness counselled silence. “Let her suffer/’ I 
said to myself, “let the cockroach do his worst.” Fear of in- 
terrupting gave like counsel. On the other side spoke the 


BEAR LAWN 19 

prickings of conscience and pity, and above all a wild desire 
to scream. 

Aunt Jael read on, innocent of the unbidden guest upon her 
shoulder. “The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a 
serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; 
and the way of a man with a maid — ” 

“Ay, and the way of a beetle with a Great-Aunt,” I could 
have shouted. The beast, after a moment’s hesitation and 
survey, had now turned along the shoulder to the neck. The 
warm hairy flesh of Aunt Jael’s neck was but six inches away. 

“The ants are a people not strong, yet they prepare their 
meat in the summer; The conies are but a feeble folk, yet they 
make their houses in the rocks; The locusts have no King, yet 
go they forth all of them by hands; The spider taketh hold with 
her hands — ” 

“Yes,” I shrieked — in a moment shot through with terror, 
joy, relief; suffused by a new beatific sense of speaking his- 
toric words — “and the beetle taketh hold with his claws!” 
As I uttered the words the insect crawled from her collar on to 
the very flesh of her neck. She understood, with Spartan 
calm took hold of him, squashed him carefully between her 
thumb and forefinger and threw him on the fire, where he 
sizzled sickeningly. 

“Surely the churning of milk bringeth forth butter, and the 
wringing of the nose bringeth forth blood: so the forcing of 
wrath bringeth forth strife.” 

There the chapter ended. She slammed the book and turned 
0n me. 

“You have forced wrath, Child. I shall bring forth strife.” 

And despite my Grandmother’s entreaties, she led me from 
the room by the nose, which she pulled unmercifully: though 
no blood was brought forth. Out in the passage she gave me 
a cruel beating with the thorned stick, till I screamed for mercy, 
and my Grandmother intervened. 

“ ’Tis cruel, Jael. The child cried out about the beetle for 
your sake.” 

“Sake or no sake, she cried out unseemly and irreverent. 
That’s all I look at.” 

I was sore in body and sorer in heart. I had screamed out 


20 


MARY LEE 


to warn Aunt Jael of the insect’s approach, and now I was 
flogged for my pains. I knew in my own heart that what 
Grandmother had pleaded was not in point of fact quite true, 
I knew I had been secretly glad to see the creature making for 
Aunt Jael’s skin, and for this reason had kept silence for so 
long. The physical instinct to scream had merely been 
stronger in the end than my resolution to say nothing. In a 
dim sort of way I realized this, and saw that my Grandmother’s 
plea was unwarranted. But I saw more clearly that the 
common-sense of the position was that I had done Aunt Jael a 
good turn, and that the flogging was — in the light of the facts 
as she (not the Lord or I) knew them — mean and undeserved. 
I brooded revenge, as always. Aunt Jael’s beatings were 
always more or less cruel, always more or less unjust; this 1 
knew with a child’s instinct, distorted and exaggerated no 
doubt by wretchedness and pride. So always I planned re- 
venge, which sooner or later brought on the next flogging. 

This time, however, my revenge was undetected. Next 
morning I came downstairs just as Mrs. Cheese was beginning 
to lay the table for breakfast. There were two separate sets of 
everything — breakfast- ware, dinner-services, tea-things, plate, 
knives and forks, even cruets — Grandmother’s and Aunt Jael’s, 
which the latter insisted on keeping rigorously separate. So, 
every day for breakfast or tea there would be two cups and 
saucers and plates with the gold pattern for my Grandmother 
and me, and one solitary cup and saucer and plate of Willow- 
pattern for my Great-Aunt. She had her own tea-pot too, a 
great fluted thing in old silver-plate, which could have held 
tea for a dozen; but never a taste of tea was poured forth from 
it for any one else, save on occasions so rare that I can number 
them on the fingers of my hand. So there was no mistaking 
the utensil with which, in which, from which, or out of which 
Aunt Jael would partake of nourishment. I was wandering 
round the table when I noticed, at first with fright, then, 
when I ascertained that it was dead, with interest and purpose, 
a large beetle much the same as its fumigated brother of the 
night before, lying on its back, claws heavenward. A divine 
idea possessed me. I picked it up, squashed it between my 
thumb and forefinger in the true Aunt Jaelian manner, and 
smeared the loathsome substance all over my Great-Aunt’s 


BEAR LAWN 


21 


teaspoon and the inside of her cup. It was an act of genius, 
that rare thing: the Revenge Perfect. “With the beetle hast 
thou slain,” I said solemnly out loud, “by the beetle shalt thou 
perish.” 

“Perish” was a poetic flight, as Aunt Jael entirely failed to 
notice the mess in her cup, which she filled with tea from her 
exclusive pot, or the mess on her spoon, with which she stirred 
lustily. She drank three cupfuls, and belched as blandly as 
usual. Now I saw the imperfection of my revenge perfect. 
In idea and execution it had been superb, and to see her guz- 
zling down the embeetled tea was very sweet. But she did not 
know she was drinking it — this was the eternal thorn that mars 
the everlasting rose. I had, however, the compensation of 
safety. All through breakfast, I looked meek and forgiving. 
Aunt Jael relented. 

“Here, child, have a drink of tea out of my cup; ’twill do 
’ee more good than the milk-and-water stuff your Grandma 
always gives ’ee.” 

“No, thank you, Aunt,” I replied. And I triumphed in my 
heart. 

Fate was about to triumph over me. Beetle had led to 
beating, and I had used beetle (with tea-cup) for revenge. 
Now Fate used tea-cup for triumph. It befell at tea-time, I 
think the same day. My arm was on the table-cloth, and, be- 
fore I knew what I was doing, it (and Fate) had swept Aunt 
Jael’s own old blue exclusive willow-pattern cup on to the 
floor, where it lay in a thousand avenging fragments. A 
brutal cuff full in the face changed fear and remorse into rage. 

“Careless little slut!” she shouted. “What are ’ee biding 
there for staring like a half-daft sheep? — Say you’re sorry, 
say you’re sorry.” 

“I was sorry,” I faltered, “but I’m not now.” 

This was the first brave thing I ever did, so brave that I hold 
my breath now to think of it. I shrank from some monstrous 
blow. 

No blow came; partly because my Grandmother looked 
warningly ready to interfere, partly because my Great-Aunt 
had decided on another punishment, the only one I feared 
worse than blows. 

“Oh, not sorry, eh, careless little slut? — ” 


22 


MARY LEE 

“Stop it, Jael, I tell ’ee,” broke in my Grandmother. “The 
child must try to be more careful and handy, and she’s to say 
she’s sorry, but — ■” 

“Say she’s sorry?” echoed Aunt Jael. “But she’s just said 
she’s not. ‘I’m not sorry now ’ quoth she! Not sorry, not 
sorry, young huzzy, do ’ee know where Not-sorry goes? Do 
’ee? I’ll tell ’ee: straight to Hell. Obstinacy in sin is the 
worst sin, and its reward is Hell. Hell, child, where your 
body will be scorched with flames and racked with awful tor- 
ments. Devils will twist and twease your flesh, and ’twill be 
for ever too. You’ve done a wrong thing, and your nasty 
proud soul is too wicked to say you’re sorry. You spurn the 
chance of repentance, the free offer of God A’mighty, made 
through me His servant. You shall suffer eternal punishment.” 

I quailed. At four the fear of that word had fallen on my 
soul. She knew it: the beady eyes gleamed. 

“No hope, no escape. Flames, pains, coals of fire, coals of 
fire! Ha, ha, ha!” (Here she cackled.) “Not sorry, eh? Very 
like you’ll be sorry then, when you look across the gulf and see 
all your dear ones in Abraham’s bosom. No hope of ever 
joining them. Torture for all eternity. Have you thought 
what the word Eternity means, child? You’re young in your 
sins as yet, but you know that well enough, ha, ha, ha!” (She 
chuckled again, three hard little cackling noises they always 
were, cruel enough.) “It means that you will suffer the tor- 
ments of the lake of fire that is burning with brimstone, not 
for a mere thousand thousand years, but for ever and ever and 
ever — ” 

I was less than four years old, and I could bear it no longer. 
I flew to my Grandmother’s arm for safety, sobbing brokenly, 
half-wild for fear. 

Aunt Jael leaned back, content, pleased with the success of 
her punishment, and sure of heaven. Though if there be the 
Hell she raved of, it is for such as her. 

My Grandmother comforted me. She was torn, I suppose, 
between two feelings. Her faith told her that what her sister 
said was true, her heart that it was cruel. I felt somehow even 
then that this was the nature of my Grandmother’s struggle. 
The good heart turns away from cruelty, even when it speaks 
with all the authority of true religion, and so my Grandmother 


BEAR LAWN 23 

always turned away. She compromised: said nothing to Aunt 
Jael, while she comforted me; while soothing the victim, did 
not scold the scolder. 

“Don’t cry my dearie, and don’t ’ee be frightened. Nought 
can harm ’ee. Your good aunt is right. ’Tis true that Hell 
is terrible, ’tis true that you’re a sinful child, and ’tis true that 
you’ll be going to the cruel place, if you have no sorrow and 
repentance in your heart. You broke your Aunt’s fine cup; 
run to her now, tell her you’re sorry. Only then can you be 
saved from the wrath of Jehovah, freed by repentance, cleansed 
by love of Christ. And even as Hell is awful, so is Heaven 
good. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, the things which God 
hath prepared for them that love Him. Run to your Aunt. 
Say : ‘I’m sorry, Aunt.’ ” 

I hesitated. Like my Grandmother’s, my four-year-old 
heart found it had to decide between two calls. The call of 
fear was, “Say you’re sorry, and escape surely from Hell.” 
The call of hate was “Why? She is a bad cruel woman; 
and you’re not sorry at all, you’re glad you’ve smashed her 
evil cup.” 

“Besides,” added the Tempter, “as you’re not sorry, it would 
be lying to say you are.” 

I hung doubtfully. At length I pouted, “I don’t want to.” 

“But true repentance,” said my Grandmother, “means doing 
things you don’t want to.” 

I said nothing. 

“Mary, child — ” my Grandmother paused a moment, “theie 
is a bright angel in heaven who wants you to give way — your 
dear mother. I seem to hear her speaking to me now, and 
telling me so.” 

It is hard for me to explain the power that word had over 
me from my earliest days. I had a dear angelic vision of 
kind eyes and two white shining wings. I would shut my 
eyes in bed at night and see her. Sometimes she seemed to 
come very near, sometimes she would seem to bend over me 
and kiss me. Now, as my Grandmother finished speaking, I 
seemed to see her near. I ran across the room to the old 
arm-chair. 

“I’m sorry, Great-Aunt,” I said. 


CHAPTER III: CHILD OF PRIVILEGE 


Such a life and such a household encouraged unchildlike 
emotions. I was puzzled far too soon in life by the puzzle of 
all life. I could not reconcile the wrath of Jehovah with 
the love of Christ, or the harshness of my Great-Aunt with 
the kindness of my Grandmother, which was the near and 
earthly form of that discrepancy. The world was a mysterious 
battlefield between Wrath and Love, as No. 8 Bear Lawn was 
a nearer and more familiar battle-place between Aunt Jael 
and Grandmother. Hell versus Heaven was another aspect 
of the battle. These two words were part of our daily life. 
They helped to make the two battles seem but one; for all 
the innumerable struggles between Aunt Jael and my 
Grandmother were conducted in the words and in the ways of 
our religion. 

Our whole life was indeed our religion, or rather our 
religion was our life. From morn till night our daily life 
at Bear Lawn was an incessant preparation for our eternal 
life above. First we said our own private bedside prayers 
and read our “bedroom portions” of the Word. Then down 
in the dining-room after breakfast, Aunt Jael read the Word 
and prayed aloud for half-an-hour or more; the same after 
supper in the evening. Then, last thing at night, my Grand- 
mother came to my room and prayed with me by my bedside. 
We lived in the world of our faith in a complete and intense 
way almost beyond the understanding of a modern household, 
however God-fearing. The promises of the faith, the un- 
searchable riches of Christ, the hope of God, the fear of Hell 
were our mealtime topics. Sin, as personified by me. was a 
fruitful subject. Both my Grandmother and Aunt Jael re- 
turned to it unwearied, the former mournfully because she 
loved me, the latter with a rough relish because she loved me 
not. 

The main principles of our faith may be summed up in a 
24 


CHILD OF PRIVILEGE 25 

few capital-letter words. First, there was THE LORD: the 
God whom all men worship: Who is One. My child’s diffi- 
culty was that He seemed to be Two. There was Aunt Jael’s 
God, a Prince of battles, revenge and judgment, dipping 
His foot in the blood of enemies and the tongue of His dogs 
in the same; a King terrible in anger, dark as a thundercloud; 
Jehovah, the great I AM. There was my Grandmother’s God, 
a loving Heavenly Father, slow to anger and plenteous in 
mercy, pitying His children like a Father, Whose mercy was 
from everlasting to everlasting, Whose loving kindness was 
for ever. 

“I will avenge,” thundered Aunt Jael from her horsehair 
throne. 

“God is Love,” replied my Grandmother. 

There was the WORLD, a comprehensive word which 
covered all concerts, entertainments, parties — whatever they 
might be, for I cannot say I knew — all merrymakings, 
junketings, outings, pleasures, joys; all books save the Book; 
all affection save for things above; all finery, furbelows, 
feathers, frills; smart clothes, love of money, lollipops, light 
conversation and unheavenly thoughts. Everything was of 
this world worldly which did not savour strongly of the next. 
There was the FLESH or the World made manifest in our 
bodies. It existed to be “mortified,” chiefly by dancing 
attendance on Aunt Jael. Not to be up and about, getting 
Aunt Jael’s morning cup-of-tea was fleshly, though it does not 
seem to have been fleshly to drink the same. Then there 
was the DEVIL, styled Personal, whom Mrs. Cheese in a fit 
of regrettable blasphemy once identified with Some One Else, 
and though the blasphemy shocked, I cannot truly say it pained 
me. 

“She’m the very Dow’l hissel, th’ ole biddy,” said our bonds- 
woman one day after an encounter in the kitchen in which 
“th’ ole biddy” had brandished big words, and had ended 
by brandishing the frying-pan also before leaving the beaten 
Mrs. Cheese to blaspheme, and later to be soothed by th’ ole 
biddy’s sister. 

Then there was the BEAST, the so-called Pope of Rome: and 
his Mistress, that great WHORE that sitteth upon many waters, 
that Woman sitting upon a scarlet-coloured beast, full of 


26 MARY LEE 

names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns, that 
Strumpet arrayed in purple and scarlet, and decked with gold 
and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her 
hand full of abominations, upon whose forehead was her 
name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE 
MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE 
EARTH — known also, in cravener circles, as the Roman 
Catholic Church. Beast and Whore were inextricably mixed 
up in my mind: an amorphous twin mass of scarlet and mon- 
strous horror. I hated them with the passionate hate of 
ignorance, religion and mystery. 

There were the ELECT, the Saints, the Few, God’s Chosen 
Ones. There was the ROOM they worshipped in, the BLOOD 
which redeemed them, the GRACE which sustained them, and 
the eternal Rest or REWARD on High they aspired to. 
There was the WAY they reached it, the PLAN of Salvation 
which shewed them the Way, and the BOOK in which the 
Plan was to be found. 

The Book! We read it aloud together twice a day, and pri- 
vately many times. We delved into its pages early and late, in 
season and out of season. They say that the old Cromwellians 
were men of one book; No. 8 Bear Lawn was a house of one 
book with very vengeance, for Aunt Jael would suffer no 
trumpery sugar-tales such as “The Pilgrim’s Progress” — a 
book which many even of the staunchest Puritans stooped, I 
have learnt later, to peruse. There were other books in the 
dining-room bookcase — works of devotion, exhortation and ex- 
position that I shall speak of later — but until I was ten years 
old, my Grandmother and Aunt decided I should read no other 
word whatsoever save The Book. Looking back, I do not re- 
gret their decision. 

Day and night we searched the Scriptures. Aunt Jael and 
Grandmother discussed them interminably, and sometimes 
I dared to join in. Our preferences varied, and were the best 
index of our characters. Aunt Jael’s favourite book was with- 
out doubt the Proverbs. Its salt old wisdom found echo in her 
mind. Its continual exhortations to chasten and to correct, 
nor ever to spare the rod, because of the crying of the 
chastened one, appealed to her nearly. They were quoted 
at me daily; usually, alas, as the prelude to offensive action 


CHILD OF PRIVILEGE 27 

with the thorned stick. Job was another favourite, and 
the din and bloodshed of the Books of Kings. Jeremiah, 
prophesying vengeance and horror, was her best-loved 
Prophet. Parts of Isaiah found favour too, most of all the 
thirty-fourth chapter where the prophet sings of the wild 
terrors that shall fill the day of the Lord’s vengeance, when 
the screech-owl shall make her resting place in Zion and the 
vultures be gathered together. Of the Psalms she read most 
the forty-sixth, “God is our refuge and strength!” and the 
sixty-eighth, “Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered.” 
Ah, she was an Old Testament woman. “Eye for eye, tooth 
for tooth” was a dispensation she could follow better than 
“Love your enemies.” The law of Moses was more acceptable 
in her sight than the Law of Christ, Jehovah’s word from the 
mountain than the Sermon on the Mount. The Epistle to the 
Romans, where Saint Paul scolds and scourges the saints of 
the Imperial City, was her favourite New Testament book. 
She loved the whole Bible, however, and knew it better than 
any one I have ever met except my Grandmother. She 
kept all the commandments, except perhaps the tenth. For 
she coveted Miss Salvation Clinker’s fine white teeth. Her 
own were few — and black. 

My Grandmother was a New Testament woman. She loved 
the Gospels best: the story of Jesus. She knew — and lived — 
better than any one the Sermon on the Mount, but came most 
often to St. John: the third chapter, “God so loved the world”; 
the tenth, “I am the Good Shepherd”; and the fifteenth, “I am 
the True Vine.” She read through the Epistles every week, 
quoting most often from I Corinthians XIII — the Charity 
chapter — and the Epistles of John. In the Old Testament, 
she loved best the Psalms. She knew them of course by 
heart, as did I. The twenty-third and the hundred-and-third 
meant most to her. Aunt Jael’s favourite, the savage sixty- 
eighth, was alien to her whole faith. She would not say she 
disliked it — : to dislike a word or a letter of God’s Word would 
have been sin. She obeyed the ten commandments that God 
gave to Moses and the two greater ones that Christ gave to 
the questioning scribe. She loved the Lord, and she loved 
her neighbours as herself. She was the only Christian I have 
ever met. 


28 MARY LEE 

My own early loves in the Book I can record faithfully. 
From the age of four to the age of twelve, I always used the 
same copy; a large musty old Bible that had belonged to my 
Mother, though not too large to hold comfortably in both 
hands. It was heavily marked. 

There were three different kinds of mark: in ordinary black 
lead pencil, to show chapters I was studying with Grandmother 
and Aunt Jael, or portions I had to learn by heart; in blue 
crayon to indicate well-liked places; in red crayon to mark the 
passages I loved best of all. That old Bible is open before 
me now as I write: the red marks are faded a little, but 
they still tell me what I liked best in those far-off days, and 
(nearly always) like best still. 

My preferences fell under three main heads. First, the 
bright-coloured stories of the beginning of the Bible, the won- 
drous lives of the men who began the world: Adam and Eve, 
Cain and Abel, Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and Esau, Joseph 
and Benjamin; with Princes such as Chedorlaomer the King 
of Elam, Tidal King of nations, and Pharaoh, full of dreams, 
There were revengeful women and some who suffered revenge: 
Hagar turned forth by Sarah into the wilderness of Beersheba; 
Lot’s wife on whom God took vengeance and turned into a 
pillar of salt, and Potiphar’s, who* took vengeance on Joseph. 
There were mysterious places: Eden and Egypt, Ur of the 
Chaldees, the Wilderness and the Cities of the Plain, the land 
of Canaan flowing with milk and honey, and the slime pits of 
Siddim into which the Kings of Sodom and Gomorrah fell. 
Wonders of earth and heaven: the Tower of Babel, the Ser- 
pent in the garden, the Tree of Knowledge; the Creation, the 
Plagues and the Flood; the Ark of refuge and the fugitive 
Dove. 

My second bent was for the mournful places of the Word; 
a morbid taste, but then so was I. The gloom of Job and 
the menace of Lamentations and the Woes of Matthew XXIV 
seemed to belong to our forbidding house. Up in the dim 
blueness of the attic I would declaim aloud the twenty-fourth 
chapter, where Christ spoke of the signs of His coming: wars 
and rumours of wars, famine and pestilence and earthquakes: 

“Wheresoever the carcase is, there the eagles will be 
gathered together.” 


CHILD OF PRIVILEGE 


29 


In my weak childish treble it must have sounded comic, 
though nobody ever laughed except, maybe, the God above the 
attic skylight. More even than gloom, I love pure sorrow: 
Ecclesiastes, where the Preacher talks of the sadness of all 
life, the eternal misery of Man; and the story of the Passion, 
the Son of Man Who tasted human bitterness and death. The 
subtlety of the Preacher may have been beyond me ; it needs no 
wit but a child’s understanding of English words to feel his 
unplumb able woe in her heart. Vanity of vanities, saith the 
Preacher, vanity of vanities: all is vanity. While Gethsemane 
saw the whole world’s sorrow in a night-time. 

My third, and chief, happiness was in the words. Passages 
there are of sounding wrath or matchless imagery. I did 
not understand them, for they pass all understanding. But I 
loved them, plastered them marginally with three thicknesses 
of red crayon, cried them aloud. I have counted, and the 
books with most markings are these four: The Psalms, the 
Song of Solomon, Isaiah, and The Revelation. In the last I 
revelled with a pure ecstasy of awe: in the sixth chapter, 
where the sun becomes black as sack-cloth of hair, and the 
moon as blood; in the twenty-first, which tells of the City 
of Heaven, a city of pure gold, like unto clear glass, the foun- 
dations of whose rocks are garnished with jasper and sapphire 
and chalcedony and emerald and sardonyx and sardius and 
chrysolyte and beryl and topaz and chrysoprasus and jacinth 
and amethyst, whose light is the Lamb; most of all in the 
seventh chapter: “What are these which are arrayed in white 
robes? And whence came they? These are they which came 
out of great tribulation and have washed their robes, and made 
them white in the blood of the Lamb.” 

My Psalms, as I called them, as against Grandmother’s or 
Aunt Jael’s proteges, were the hundred-and-thirty-seventh, By 
the waters of Babylon , and the twenty-fourth, Who is the King 
of glory? 

However much I might write about the Book, it would fail 
to fill the place in this record that it filled in our lives, of 
which it moulded the very moods. Aunt Jael as lover of the 
Mosaic law and student of the Proverbs, was herself stern 
lawgiver and sayer of dark sayings. She ruled. Ruled my 
Grandmother (nearly always and in nearly everything^though 


30 


MARY LEE 


there were exceptions) ; ruled me (except in one or two awful 
occasions I shall tell of) ; ruled Mrs. Cheese (until the latter’s 
Exodus) ; ruled the household, ruled the Meeting, and could 
have ruled the whole world with a due sense of her fitness 
for the post. The old armchair was her throne, the thorned 
stick her sceptre. As a woman she had, as I can see now, 
many high qualities. She did her duty as she saw it; was 
honourable and straightforward. She loved the truth, espe- 
cially when it was unpalatable to other people. She had a deep 
fund of common-sense. She was a thrifty, hard-headed, sen- 
sible house- wife; and, as I said before, observed with zeal some 
nine of the Commandments. But of kinder or more endearing 
qualities I remember none. No doubt some of the child’s 
bitterness and the child’s bias remain with me still — perhaps 
it is merely vain to imagine that I hold the scales evenly and 
do not let prejudice weight memory — but I look across many 
years and see, as I believe the world saw, a hard bad old 
woman. Heaven, they say, forgives those who love much; 
maybe it forgives also those who are little loved, for they 
need forgiveness most. Aunt Jael started life hard, but I feel 
certain that the hardness was made a hundredfold harder 
because no love — no lover — had ever come her way. Bitter 
because she had no family of her own, she strove to embitter 
her sister’s. Cheated of the two things we women need most — 
lordship and love — in revenge she lorded it over everybody, 
and loved not a soul in the world. Not but what she could 
have wedded many a time if she’d felt so inclined, including 
some as “others” didn’t mind stooping to take though they 
were her leavings; not but what — in short, to all the tragical- 
comical backward boastings of the unchosen woman she would 
treat us at times. It was one of her few weaknesses, and 
I have since wondered if, failing to deceive six-year-old me, 
she succeeded in deceiving herself. During a tirade of this 
kind, I always fell a-musing what “Uncle Jael” would have 
been like. I decided he would wear smoked black glasses, like 
the man who came to tune our old piano; because I once fan- 
cied that Aunt Jael’s eyes had rested upon the latter with a 
suspicion of unwonted coyness. This must have been a freak 
of my imagination, if not of Aunt Jael’s after-dinner brandy. 
“For two good qualities,” she used to say, “I thank and praise 


CHILD OF PRIVILEGE 31 

the Lord. That he has preserved me all my life from all 
wanton sentiment; and that it has pleased Him to make me 
the most fearless and outspoken woman in this town.” 

What I have said about my Grandmother’s pastures in the 
Bible shows what manner of woman she was. Yet not quite 
completely. She was gentle and forgiving, and the most un- 
selfish human being I have ever met, or ever shall; but this 
and more. She was as shrewd a housewife as her sister; a 
woman of common-sense and plain seeing. Nor was she weak 
or meek. She gave in to Aunt Jael, certainly; but on prin- 
ciple, that is through strength rather than weakness. And 
whenever she chose to fight ungloved, she would usually 
beat her sister. I was the chief battle-ground. When Aunt 
Jael’s abuse or ill-treatment of me became too outrageous. 
Grandmother would show fight, and on her day could leave 
Aunt Jael drubbed and apologetic upon the stricken field. 
But if my Grandmother thus defended me to Aunt Jael, she 
never had a good word to say of me to myself, or to the Lord. 
Every night at my bedside she poured out my wickedness 
before my Maker; and in all her life she only praised me once. 
With rare instinct she refused to water the plant of self-right- 
eousness which she saw ready to flourish in me like the bay- 
tree. In her mild way she could be as outspoken as her 
sister ; indeed what with the two of them and Mrs. Cheese, who 
“called a spade a spade, and a pasnip a pasnip,” ours was a 
stark outspoken house, a dark palace of Plain Speaking. 
Despite all my Grandmother’s loveliness of character, she 
lacked one thing. Demonstrative affection, warm clinging 
love, the encircling arm, the kiss, the gentle madness, the dear 
embrace, — things I did not know the existence of till a later 
unforgettable moment, though they were the mystery, the hun- 
ger, never perfectly visualized, never in the heart understood, 
that till that moment I was seeking always to solve, to satisfy; 
the thing I cried for passionately without knowing what thing 
it was — these had no meaning for her, no place ever in her life. 
The nearest she had known was in her love for my mother. 
Did they kiss? I wonder. In all the years of her love and 
goodness to me, she never once kissed me upon the mouth, nor 
hugged me, nor let me hug her; nor said the word for which 
my little wild heart was waiting. For so good and affectionate 


32 


MARY LEE 


a woman she was strangely phlegmatic. As she did not em- 
brace in love, nor did she weep in sorrow. Even when my 
mother died, her eyes, she told me, were dimmed for a mo- 
ment only. It was the Lord’s will: wherefore weep? Yet I 
have seen her shedding tears of joy over a missionary chronicle 
which told of the conversion of some African negro. She had 
tears, that is, for the Lord; as her strongest love was for Him. 
Humans mattered much; but less. Thus I was lonely. 

To give a picture of myself in those early days I find harder, 
though once again the Bible helps. I liked the imaginative 
old stories of Genesis, I liked the sad and gloomy books, I 
liked mysterious words; that is, I was imaginative, morbid, 
and fond of the unknown and the beautiful: much what any 
other child brought up under the same circumstances would 
have been. If not a remarkable, and certainly not a clever 
child, I was no less certainly out-of-the-ordinary. With my 
morbid environment it was inevitable. I was serious, solemn 
and sensitive beyond what any child should be. In fact my 
oddness really amounted to this, that I was unchildlike — chiefly 
because I was unhappy. If ever there were a moping miser- 
able little guy, it was I. I had no companions of my own age 
whatever, nor up till just before the time I left Tawborough 
for Torribridge had I ever been alone with any other child for 
half an hour in my life. Aunt Jael forbade intercourse with 
worldly children, and my Grandmother agreed. They were an 
unknown race. All my companions were old women; the 
youngest, Mrs. Cheese, was sixty. I was never allowed to play 
with the Lawn children, indeed never allowed to play 
with anybody or “at” anything. I was kept indoors all day 
long to mope about in the gloomy house. 

The distractions allowed were two: searching the Scriptures, 
and plain sewing. At six in the morning I got up, and, from 
the age of five or six onwards, made my own bed and dusted 
my bedroom. Then I went into Aunt Jael’s room, and helped 
her to dress. Aunt Jael was usually in an evil temper first 
thing, and the only coin in which she repaid my services was 
hard words and harder bangs. It was a painful half-hour 
passed in an atmosphere of laces and buttons, hooks and eyes, 
blows and maledictions. Sometimes if I failed to do her boots 
up quickly enough, she would kick me. The next duty was 


CHILD OF PRIVILEGE 33 

helping Mrs. Cheese and Grandmother with the breakfast, 
which was eaten at half past seven punctually. After break- 
fast, prayers; then I dusted the dining-room; then from nine 
to eleven, two wretched hours with Aunt Jael styled Lessons, 
a hotchpotch of Proverbs, pothooks and multiplication-tables, 
served up with the usual seasoning of cuffs and imprecations. 
Every day I cried wretchedly, though tears brought nothing 
but the stick — and tears again. From eleven to twelve I sewed 
with my Grandmother; at noon we had dinner. After dinner 
Grandmother usually studied the Word in her bedroom, while 
Aunt Jael snored in her chair: I was left to moon about the 
house alone, with no plaything, no books, no companions; no 
resources whatever but my own imagination. I would sit for 
hours in the great blue attic, talking to myself, inventing imag- 
inary scenes in which I triumphed over Aunt Jael and humbled 
her before the world, or reciting from the Word, or often 
merely weeping. After supper, came prayers and reading the 
Word; then bedside prayers with my Grandmother; then bed, 
which was not a much happier place, as I dreamt often, usually 
nightmares of hell and eternity, Satan and Aunt Jael. 

It was a dreary life. I was a dreary little girl, and % I must 
have looked it. No photograph was ever taken to perpetuate 
the prim, sulky, pale Quakerish little object I am told I was. 
My odd appearance was not helped by decent clothes. There 
was to be no indulgence of the Flesh, and I was dressed with 
due unbecomingness, always in the same way. I wore a dark 
green corduroy blouse and skirt, arid a little corduroy bonnet 
to match, bedecked with a gaunt duck’s feather. For winter 
I had an ugly black overcoat with a cape. I had black woollen 
mittens and square hobnailed boots. 

I had no martyr’s idea of myself, however, no exquisite self- 
pity, and any trace of such that may appear here is to be laid 
at the door of the authoress aged fifty, not of her chrysalis aged 
five. All I knew was that I was miserable. I had a child’s 
sure instinct for injustice. I knew it was unjust that Aunt 
Jael should beat and abuse me all day long. I hated her bit- 
terly, and hate makes no one happier. Lovelessness is even 
worse than hate, and the two beset me. My Grandmother 
loved me tenderly no doubt, but her ways were not my ways. 
She had no understanding of what I longed for. I wanted 


34 


MARY LEE 


somebody — I only half guessed this, not daring to believe the 
visualization when it suggested itself — in whose bosom I could 
bury my face and cry for pure happiness. I would whimper 
myself to sleep thinking of my mother. Sometimes I seemed 
to see her as an angel. She looked kind and radiant, and 
comforted me. When my Grandmother caught me crying for 
my mother, I would say it was because of Aunt Jael’s latest 
flogging. 

Fear ruled me. The Devil and Hell frightened me terribly, 
and Eternity more. The thought of living for ever and ever 
and ever, the attempt of my child’s mind to picture everlast- 
ingness, to visualize my own soul living through the pathless 
spaces of a billion years, and to be still no nearer the end than 
at the beginning, — this morbid unceasing trick of my imagi- 
nation filled me with an ecstasy of fear, that froze and numbed 
my brain. I would sit up in bed too terrified to scream, voice- 
less with fear. My heart beat wildly. The realization that 
there was no hope, no way out — oh, heart, none ever — that 
because I was once born I must live for all eternity, seized my 
body and brain alike. I would jump out of bed, cry brokenly 
“God, God” in wild agony of soul, until, at last, the terror 
passed. Then, in a strange way, the blood rushed warmly 
back into my brain, and a languorous feeling of ease succeeded 
the terror of a moment before. Sometimes I was wicked and 
foolish enough to suffer the horror of thus “thinking Eternity 
out” for the sake of the luxurious backwash of comfort and 
physical peace which followed. But most often the terror 
came imperiously, and I could not escape it. I would be 
looking at the stars, I would think of their ineffable distances, 
then from eternity in space my mind would be dragged as by 
some devil to eternity in time, and I would have to live through 
the terror of the attempt — against my own will as it were — to 
think out, to live out, the meaning of living for ever. It is 
the worst agony the poor human soul can know; for a child, 
unnameable. There is no escape. The soul must go through 
the agony of the whole visualization — it may only be seconds, 
though it seems (perhaps is) Eternity Itself — right to the 
moment when the brain and body can abide the horror no 
longer, and from the very depths the soul cries out to “God.” 

A happy healthy child would know nothing of such bogeys; 


CHILD OF PRIVILEGE 35 

but I was neither. I was puny and ailing; I rarely went out 
of doors. Market on a Friday morning, Meeting on Sundays, 
and an afternoon walk once in a long while constituted my 
record of outings. The only real advantage I gained from 
this unhappy and unhealthy life was the development of a quite 
unusual power of instinct and intuition. Shut up all day 
long with no companions but the same three faces, I could 
read every mood and movement of them with unerring skill. 
Like the savage, or any one else who lives in an abnormally 
narrow world, I felt things rather than knew them. And the 
thing I felt and knew most sorely was that I was wretched. 
And when Aunt Jael moralized and said, “You are a privileged 
child indeed,” I felt and knew that she was lying. 

“Your holy kinsfolk, your saintly mother, your godly sur- 
roundings, your exceptional chances of grace, all show you to 
be a Child of Privilege.” 

All this, from the earliest days that I could understand, was 
usual enough. One day, however, when I was about five, she 
paused here with an air of special importance that I scented 
at once, then proceeded, “Your Grandmother and I have come 
to a decision, Child. Everything points out that the Lord has 
chosen you for special privileges, and special works for Him. 
If you were a boy, Child, the way would be clear. We should 
train you for the Ministry of His Word. Yet the way has been 
made plain. Your Grandmother and I have decided, after 
much seeking of the Lord in prayer, that your lot is to be 
cast — (she looked towards my Grandmother for confirmation, 
and concluded majestically ) — in the field of foreign labour. 
You will bear witness to the Lord among the heathen. ‘Go ye 
into all the world and preach the Gospel, for lo! I am with 
you alway’!” 

I looked appealingly towards my Grandmother. “Yes,” she 
said, “I think it is the Lord’s will.” 

So that was my life work. I was to spend Eternity as a mis- 
sionary. 

“You are indeed a Child of Privilege,” Aunt Jael was 
booming. 


CHAPTER IV: I GO TO MEETING 


On Lord’s Day, March the Sixth 1853, being the first 
Sabbath after my fifth birthday, I was taken to Meeting. 

Meeting! — one social sphere my Grandmother and Great- 
Aunt knew; their one earthly club, set, milieu; company of 
saints, little flock of the elect, assembling together of the 
chosen of God from Eternity! 

I awoke to find Grandmother standing by my bed ; which was 
unusual, for I always woke myself. 

“ ’Tis a great and notable day, my dear; the day you are to 
join with the Lord’s people in prayer and praise. I want to 
pray with ’ee.” 

I got out of my bed, and when she had put around me the 
old red dressing gown, we knelt down together by the bedside, 
and the Lord was besought to vouchsafe that my first public 
acquaintance with His People might be abundantly blessed to 
me. After breakfast I was sent upstairs to my bedroom to 
meditate apart for an hour before Meeting; an exercise 
ordained henceforward every Sunday of my life. 

About a quarter- past-ten we sallied forth, Mary in green 
corduroy between Grandmother in her Sunday black and Aunt 
Jael with her go-to-Meeting blue-velvet-ribboned bonnet. I 
should now behold the inside of the Room, antechamber of 
Heaven; I should join in public worship with the Saints. 
Curiosity alone did not stir me; in some vague exalted way, I 
hoped to get nearer to the Lord. 

The Room was a bare little tabernacle in a side-street, built 
in the Noah’s Ark style dear also to Methodism. Grand- 
mother took my hand as we mounted the steps from the street; 
we passed into the Holy Place. I received at once the curious 
effect of a light bluish mist which, though brighter, reminded 
me of the thick blue gloom of my attic, and which was caused 
by the light blue distempered brick of the walls and ceiling. 
There were eight windows in the Room, which was many times 
larger than our parlour and by far the largest place I had ever 

36 


37 


I GO TO MEETING 

entered; each consisted of twenty-four small square panes, 
six in the perpendicular by four breadthways, a source for 
years to come of endless countings and pattern-weavings and 
mystical mathematical tricks. There were two of these win- 
dows at each end of the room, and two down each side. All 
eight were set so high as almost to merge into the ceiling. 
The curious result was that while near the floor it was com- 
paratively dark, the upper part of the room was very light. 
A symbol, I thought; for Earth is dark, but Heaven bright. 
Aunt Jael led the way up a druggeted sort of aisle to the front 
row where we alone sat: the family’s immemorial place, 
though purchased by no worldly pew-rent. In the first rush 
of newness I but dimly apprehended the benches of black-clad 
figures we had passed. Immediately in front of us stood the 
Lord’s Table, covered with spotless white damask, and laden 
with two tall bottles of wine, two great pewter tankards, and 
two cottage-loaves on plates. Beyond the Table was a low 
raised dais from which the Gospel was preached at the evening 
meetings for unbelievers; never used at the Breakings of Bread, 
for all Saints are equal, and none may stand above his fellows. 
On either side of the Table, however, respectively to our right 
and left were the (unofficial) seats of the mighty: Mr. Pente- 
cost Dodderidge and Brother Brawn on one side, Brother 
Quappleworthy and Brother Browning on the other. On the 
wall at the far end was a clock, loudly audible in the abysmal 
silences of prayer. 

I did not absorb all the details at a first glance; nor do I 
really remember the particular texts, expositions and hymns 
of that initiatory day. What I do always retain and rehearse 
in my mind is rather one “Type” meeting, from first silence 
to final benediction; an ideal combination of many different 
Lord’s Days, in which I have unconsciously fitted together 
Brothers, events, homilies, each in most typical essence. 

This morning meeting, the Breaking of Bread, was the 
meeting par excellence. The Breaking of the Bread and the 
drinking of wine were the central acts of a tense and devout 
program of prayer, of reading and exposition of the Word, 
and of hymn-singing, unaccompanied by any choir or 
instrument of music. Only Saints were bidden, i. e., those 
who had testified aloud to the saving grace of the body and 


38 


MARY LEE 


the blood, and had taken up their Cross in public baptism. 
We were no ordinary Dissenting chapel, where “All are wel- 
come”: — the more the merrier, more grist to the mill, more 
pennies on the plate, more souls for the Kingdom. Only the 
Lord’s own chosen testified people were deemed worthy of 
this solemn privilege of eating His sacred Body and drinking 
His sacred Blood; and only they were admitted. The only 
exceptions were a few children, like myself, who could not 
be left at home by their elders. A few non-privileged adults 
very occasionally came: old friends of the Meeting who for 
some reason of reluctance or uncertainty were untestified and 
unbaptized, or strangers, drawn by sympathy or curiosity; 
but earthen platter and pewter mug were zealously snatched 
away if such alien hands essayed to grasp them. (So too was 
the collecting-box. I have seen visitors with outstretched 
arm and generous shilling gasp with surprise as the money-box 
was drawn rudely out of their reach. Unlike worldlywise 
church or chapel, we would touch none but hallowed gold. 
The collection was as close a privilege as the communion.) 

On an average morning we were fifty or sixty strong; more 
women than men, more old than young, more wan than hale, 
more humble than high. With dough of small shopkeepers, 
masons, artisans, gardeners, old women with pathetic private 
incomes, washerwomen, charwomen, servants, we had leaven 
of more comfortable middle-class people like Grandmother 
and Aunt Jael, or “better” folk still like Mr. Pentecost Dodd- 
eridge, or best of all dear Brother Quappleworthy, our gradu- 
ate of the University of Oxford, our cousin by marriage with 
a peer of England! Believers in the aristocratic principle 
would have noted with satisfaction that from this blue-blooded 
minority were drawn almost all the “Leading Saints.” 

We were a community. The better-to-do helped the poor, 
and remembered that all were equal before God. Odd folk 
and sane folk, stupid folk and wise folk: with all their fail- 
ings, a more gentle, worthy, sincere and trustful company of 
followers of Jesus of Nazareth could not have been found in 
this whole world or century. The fault they were farthest 
from is the one the fool most often imputes: hypocrisy. They 
were, of course, a varied company; it takes all sorts to make 
a Meeting. 


I GO TO MEETING 39 

Our Leading Brothers were Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge, with 
Brothers Brawn, Browning, Briggs, Quappleworthy, Quick, 
and Quaint. The last was only included just to round things 
off and to justify Mr. Pentecost’s holy pleasantry “The Lord 
is watching us: let us mind our B’s and Q’s,” for he was really 
quite an obscure brother who rarely broke silence, and then to 
pray so pessimistically that he can never have expected his 
petitions to be heard, let alone answered. 

To be Leading Brother implied merely this: to stand out of 
the ruck of silent members, either in prayer or exposition of 
the Word. Many an obscure Brother, however, who would 
never have risked his hand at prayer or exposition occasionally 
blurted into a morning’s modest fame by announcing a hymn. 
A stir of special interest was always felt in the Meeting on 
such occasions, and it was whispered that “the Lord was not- 
ably working in Brother So-and-So.” Giving out a hymn was 
after all not so mean a performance. Every line of every 
verse was slowly enunciated by the chooser before we began 
to sing. The church and chapel habit of reading out only the 
first verse (or even line!) struck me as very odd and meagre 
when I first encountered it many years later. Prayer, how- 
ever, was the favourite form of self-expression. All the Lead- 
ing Saints were “powerful in prayer.” 

Exposition either followed or accompanied the reading of 
a portion of the Word. It was our “sermon.” Our five 
regular expounders were Mr. Pentecost, Brothers Quapple- 
worthy (the chief), Brawn, Browning and Briggs. 

Though in theory we allowed no official ruler of the syna- 
gogue, in practice Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge was our Great 
High Priest. He alone was spoken of as Mister. He alone 
was immune from error and criticism. It is hard for me to 
reconstruct his personality now, when my own mentality is so 
different from when I knew him, when he prayed for me, 
blessed me, took me on his knees. It is still harder to convey 
to this generation the reverence in which his venerable white 
hairs were held. The world in which he ruled, the Saints’ 
world, may have been small; but within its pale, through all 
England, he was revered as the holiest child of man. And we 
of the Tawborough Meeting possessed him for ourselves: in 
his old age he ceased to travel, and left us but little. We 


40 


MARY LEE 

shone in the reflected glory of his presence; knew ourselves the 
Meeting of Meetings, called blessed of the Lord. He lived 
by prayer alone: the anonymous gifts of money on which he 
chiefly lived came to him whence he did not know, except that 
they came from God. In the old ancestral house another 
famous Pentecost Dodderidge had built he still lived; in one 
hallowed room he welcomed all who came to him for their 
souls’ good; another was fitted as a workshop, and here till 
after his eightieth year he spent a portion of every day at the 
lathe. He could preach in eight languages, in five of them flu- 
ently. He never rose later than four and devoted the three 
hours before breakfast to “knee-drill,” i. e., incessant prayer. 
He baptized believers in the river Taw till his eightieth year. 
One memorable immersion of which I shall speak later took 
place when he had turned eighty-four. His one kink was a 
trick of godly epigrams and holy repartees, cunningly led up 
to, of which he was as nearly vain as he could be. I remember 
Aunt Jael once saying to him in our dining-room at Bear Lawn: 

“Your ‘Life’ should be written, Mr. Pentecost.” 

“But it is being written, dear sister,” he replied. “It will 
be published in the morning.” 

“Published? Where?” 

“Beyond the sky. The author is the Lord Jesus Christ. 
The ink is His precious Blood.” 

Another day my Grandmother asked him if he would begin 
to remember me in his prayers. 

“I cannot,” he replied gently. 

“Cannot?” faltered my Grandmother. 

“No, I cannot begin to pray for her. I have begun 
already.” 

For all his eminence Pentecost took no preponderating 
share in worship, nor ever made himself like the “Ministering 
Brothers” of some other meetings, who prayed almost all the 
prayers, chose almost all the hymns, gave one long sermon- 
like piece of exposition, and officiated alone at the Lord’s 
Table — for all the world like a dissenting parson in his chapel 
or a priest in his church. 

Second in importance stood Brother Brawn, a fat, doddering, 
bleating, weak-at-the-knees old bachelor and Christian; the 
maid-of-all-work of the Meeting, who distributed the offertory, 


41 


I GO TO MEETING 

paid the caretaker, saw to the heating and cleaning of the 
room, and bought the bread and wine. With his white waggly 
little beard and gentle animal features he looked absurdly 
like a goat, and ba-a-a-d just like one too. He had two little 
homilies only, which he and we knew by heart; one on ’Ell 
and the other on Mysteries, often given one after the other to 
form a continuous whole. Some of the Saints, I fear, dared 
to think these holy discourses dull. Not so Miss Salvation 
Clinker, who declared that “ivry word wat falls from ’is 
blessed lips is a purl uv great price.” 

Brother Quappleworthy, who stood equal in importance, 
was a striking contrast. He was our intellect, our light of 
learning, our peer’s cousin-in-law. His erudition in real 
Hebrew and real Greek ranked with Brother Brawn’s devotion, 
if a little lower than Pentecostal saintliness. Sneer we never 
so smugly at the filthiness of mere book knowledge, not one 
of us but was somehow elated to hear that favourite phrase: 
“Now in the original Greek — ” His supplications, if accept- 
able to many, were perhaps too much of a muchness. It was 
all “Yea Lord, Nay Lord, Oh Lord, Ah Lord, If Lord. . . .” 

After Brother Quappleworthy, Brother Browning was our 
most frequent speaker. He came to Meeting accompanied by 
his little boy Marcus, the most youthful person present save 
me, but not, alas, by his spouse, who belonged, alas, to that 
pernicious sect of Bible Christians whom he (seven times alas) 
did occasionally himself frequent. 

There was Brother Briggs, by vocation an oilman’s handy- 
man, whose face always shone with oil of happiness and hope, 
whose utterances were charged with an uncontrollable opti- 
mism and joy, a ringing, shouting, h-less content with the 
universe. The learned would call it cosmic expansiveness. 
Beside him Walt Whitman was a prophet of despair, Mark 
Tapley a misanthrope. His favourite word was “bewtivul” and 
he used it without mercy. There was Brother Quaint, the 
gloomy pray-er. There was Brother Lard, who emitted from 
his mouth periodic noises — signs of bad manners and diges- 
tion — which it is unusual to mention on paper: endemic en- 
deavours that punctuated the subtlest exposition of Quapple- 
worthy, the dreariest prayer of Quaint’s, and added a spice 
of charm and unexpectedness to the whole service. I enjoyed 


42 


MARY LEE 


them coarsely; with solemn face, pious unawareness. One 
joyous occasion I remember when Brother Quappleworthy was 
beginning the eighth chapter of the Revelation in his most 
impressive style. At the words “There was silence in heaven 
about the space of half-an-hour,” he paused dramatically 
to illustrate, as it were, the meaning. Then, after five seconds 
of rapt silence, Brother Lard trumpeted forth: long, loud, 
luscious, lingering; .a diapason of swaying sound and 
chronic indigestion. To the eternal credit of my Grand- 
mother and Great-aunt, I record it that they smiled. . . . 
There was Brother Marks, a thin unhappy-looking man, wear- 
ing large black-rimmed spectacles, who mourned in a far cor- 
ner apart, and never uttered a word or even joined in the 
hymns. I thought him a sinister figure; his goggles repelled 
me; I associated him by some vague but authentic impulse 
with the Personal Devil. 

The Sisters were of course less important than the Brothers. 
“Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not 
permitted unto them to speak.” Above all the others 
towered Sister Vickary and Sister Lee. My Grandmother 
was universally loved. Before Aunt Jael the whole meeting 
quailed. Brother Briggs grovelled. Brother Brawn obeyed, 
Brother Quappleworthy deferred. She herself deferred to 
Pentecost Dodderidge alone; indeed the veneration she felt for 
the venerable instrument of her conversion, her Ananias of 
Damascus, was touching in so masterful a soul. In the ledgers 
of the Lord, I make bold to guess, it stands to her credit. 
In the counsels of the elders she was supreme; she was the wise 
woman of the Proverbs. No decision affecting the welfare of 
the flock could be taken by Pentecost or Brawn without the 
assent of the Shepherdess, as the former called her, perhaps 
not unmindful of her crook. No meeting felt it had the right 
— or courage — to begin without her presence. When it was 
over, she walked out first, bowing to right and left like an 
Empress as she stalked the length of the Room. She had as 
much common-sense as any other three Saints added together. 
Not a soul of them loved her. 

We arrived each Lord’s day about twenty-five past ten. 
When all were assembled, there was a period of five or ten min- 


43 


I GO TO MEETING 

utes’ absolute silence, broken only by the strident ticking of the 
clock. Some pairs of eyes were closed in silent prayer, others 
stared straight before them at some heavenly object of reflec- 
tion. 

Up rose Brother Browning. “Let us sing together to the 
glory of the Lord hymn number one-four-two: “We praise 
Thee , 0 Jehovah !” There was a turning of leaves, for at this 
time most of us possessed hymn-books, though a few of the 
older generation, including Aunt Jael, viewed all hymn-books 
as snares of the Devil, and bore witness against the fleshly 
innovation by still singing always from memory. Brother 
Browning read aloud the whole hymn: 

We praise Thee, 0 Jehovah! 

We know, whate’er betide, 

Thy name, “Jehovah Jireh” 

Secures, “Thou wilt provide.” 

We praise Thee, 0 Jehovah! 

Our banner gladly raise; 

“ Jehovah Nissi!” rally us 
For conflict, victory, praise. 

We praise Thee, 0 Jehovah! 

In every trouble near; 

“ Jehovah Shalom” — God is peace, — 

Dispels each doubt and fear. 

We praise Thee, 0 Jehovah! 

And, clothed in righteousness, 

“Jehovah” great “ Tskidkenu !” 

Complete, we gladly bless. 

We praise Thee, O Jehovah! 

Thou wilt for Israel care! 

“ Jehovah Shammah” precious thought! 

Henceforth “The Lord is there.” 

We sang sitting. Oh, inharmonious howl! Some Brother 

usually Brother Schulz, who was fancied to possess musical 

talent— pitched the key and set the time as he fancied. The 
latter was always funereally slow, the former more often than 
not much too high or too low to be persevered with. Not that 
that mattered. Somebody would merely switch off into an- 


44 


MARY LEE 


other key anything from a semitone to an octave higher or 
lower as the case might be: switching part of the way back 
again if the change proved too drastic. The consequence of 
this go-as-you-please policy was that a hymn would sometimes 
be sung in four different times and seven or eight different 
keys. Above all the holy din you could hear Brother Briggs 
bawling forth his joy in the Lord; higher still the awful 
metallic howl of Sister Yeo. 

When the hymn was done there was another space of com- 
plete silence till the spirit moved Brother Quappleworthy to 
utterance. Once on his feet, he found his two Bibles, English 
and Greek, rather difficult to wield, especially as his reading 
from the Word hardly ever consisted of one solid chapter read 
straight through, but of snippets of two or three verses each 
from half-a-dozen different books, connected only by their 
(imagined) relevance to the topic he had in mind: grace or 
trustfulness or hope or sin. We all followed him in our own 
Bibles: so that his Reading had orchestral accompaniment of 
zealous page-rustlings. “Let us read together in the Book of 
Genesis, that sixth chapter and those fifth, sixth and seventh 
verses . . . and now let us turn to the Book of Job, the fifth 
chapter and the thirteenth verse . . . and now a verse in that 
sweet Second Epistle of Peter, the second chapter and that 
fourth verse. ...” 

After we had rustled backwards and forwards for a few 
minutes, Brother Quappleworthy closed first one Bible and 
then the other with two emphatic snaps, and put them under 
his left arm, leaving his right hand free to gesticulate, — more 
especially the right forefinger, which ever and anon he brand- 
ished to exhort, to emphasize, to warn, to wheedle. “Well, 
brethren, the upshot and outcome of all that we have read is — 
ah — manifest. It is — ah — this. He alone saved us from the 
pit. He alone, not — ah — another. He saved us — miserable 
sinners, grovelling worms — us and none others. Far be it 
from us ever to think ourselves worthy of such grace and 
favour! Far otherwise! — but so He willed. Our souls — 
your soul, ah, my soul — would have gone into eternal dark- 
ness save for Him, the Lord, — Kvpios — how I love it in the 
old Greek! He alone, brethren, can — ah — renew our natures; 


I GO TO MEETING 45 

and can — ah — shape better desires for our natures when 
renewed — can show us the more excellent way ! . . . ” 

After a new silence, the spirit would move Brother Brawn to 
clamber to his feet, and give us his changeless utterance on 
64 ’Ell” or “Mysteries.” I give it with a word for word ac- 
curacy I cannot often vouch for. His er-er was a bleating 
sort of stammer much less elegant than Brother Quapple- 
worthy’s ah. 

“My mind, brethren, ‘as bin — er — er dwellin’ much all 
through the mornin’ on the subject of 9 Ell. On the torments 
and ’orrors that all the ’eathen and unsaved will taste down 
there below, yes, and are tastin’ at this very minnit as we are 
praisin’ the Lord ’ere in this Rume. Torments and — er — er — 
er — ’orrors. You know. I know. And they torments are for 
all the sinners an’ unsaved: ivry wan uv them, not for some 
jis’ , as I’ve ’eard folk say. No for all, all , ALL , ALL. You 
mark my words. All the ’ eathen shall be ’ urled to ’ Ell, 
whether they’ve ’eard or whether they ’aven’tl” (This last 
sentence he sing-songed with violent emphasis, clapping his 
hands together at the syllables I have marked) “0 Yes! I 
can imagine ’em wallering in the brimstone and sulphur. I 
know. We shall be wi’ Lazarus in Abraham’s — er — er — 
bosom, and they will be down the fiery gulf, down in the fiery 
pit. So, brethren, let us be ready for the Lord, let us make 
sure uv our place in the bosom, not the pit. Bosom for us! 
BOSOM ! We must watch and er — er — pray. We must. 
I’m sure we must.” 

A pause. He shifted his feet clumsily. His thick lips 
moved stupidly as he made mental preparations for Part Two. 

“My mind, brethren, ’as been — er — er — dwellin’ much on 
another subjict this mornin’ , the subjict of Mysteries. It has; 
I’m sure it has. There are two mysteries. There is the 
mystery of godliness, that’s one; and the mystery of iniquity, 
that’s two. It all ’appened at the Fall. The Fall was when 
the mystery of godliness became the mystery of iniquity; an’ 
the mystery of iniquity became the mystery of godliness; all 
mixmuddled up together as you mid say. It became ’ard to 
— er — er — tell ’em apart. ’Tis only ’Is chosen ones as can do 
it — that’s you and me, brethren — and ’tain’t orwis easy for us. 


46 


MARY LEE 


Let us try to know one from the other, and if we tries our 
’ardest, the Lord will ’elp us to. Yes ’E will. I’m sure ’E 
will.” 

After Brother Brawn, the beginning of the meeting was well 
over. We knew that the great moments were drawing near. 
A deeper silence filled the little room: the hush of pure holi- 
ness. There was a prayer or two, and then we sang the Bread 
hymn. Usually this one: 

Through Thy precious body broken 
Inside the veil. 

Oh, what words to sinners spoken — 

Inside the veil. 

Precious, as the blood that bought us; 

Perfect, as the love that sought us; 

Holy, as the Lamb that brought us; 

Inside the veil. 

When we see Thy love unshaken, 

Outside the camp. 

Scorn’d by man, by God forsaken, 

Outside the camp. 

Thy loved cross alone can charm us; 

Shame doth now no more alarm us; 

Glad we follow, nought can harm us; 

Outside the camp. 

Lamb of God! through Thee we enter 
Inside the veil. 

Cleansed by Thee, we boldly venture 
Inside the veil. 

Not a stain; a new creation; 

Ours is such a full salvation! 

Low we bow in adoration, 

Inside the veil. 

Unto Thee, the homeless stranger, 

Outside the camp. 

Forth we hasten, fear no danger, 

Outside the camp. 

Thy reproach far richer treasure 

Than all Egypt’s boasted pleasure; 

Drawn by love that knows no measure. 

Outside the camp. 

Soon Thy saints shall all be gathered, 

Inside the veil. 


I GO TO MEETING 


47 


All at home, no more be scattered, 

Inside the veil. 

Nought from Thee our hearts shall sever, 

We shall see Thee, grieve Thee never; 

“Praise the Lamb!” shall sound for ever 
Inside the veil. 

We sang it to a slow drawling tune, incommunicably dreary. 

Pentecost arose, white and priestly. “Little children, every 
time I come to this Table, I come with a joy, a peace and a 
gratitude that are ever new. My heart is too full of love for 
my Saviour for any words of mine to tell you. Let us bear in 
mind, little children, rather His own precious words: This 
is my Body, which is given for you.” 

As he ceased, Brother Brawn arose from his seat at the right 
of the Table, took each of the loaves, held them sacrificially 
aloft, broke them in twain. One plate he himself passed round 
among the Saints, Brother Browning the other. I watched 
with evergreen curiosity and reverence how each Saint broke 
off a piece of bread and with closed eyes slowly munched it 
away. Once in a way the impious thought seized me that 
’twas all farce, mummery, tomfoolery: this chewing of dough. 
The next instant I would flush crimson to have let such wick- 
edness find place for an instant in my mind: I would look and 
behold the rapture on the munching faces; and understand 
beyond all doubting that here was something mystical, magical, 
holy. I could see that those who took bread obtained thereby 
some supernal joy that I was too young or too sinful to share. 
It could not be tomfoolery if it gave you the rapture I could 
see on the faces around me. Besides, Jesus had ordained it. 

Another silence — the middle space of the double sacrifice — 
ere we sang the Wine hymn: 

It is the blood, it is the blood. 

Which has atonement made; 

It is the blood which once for all 
Our ransom price has paid. 

It was the blood, the mark of blood 
The people’s houses bore; 

And when that mark by God was seen 
His angel passsed the door. 


48 


MARY LEE 


Not water, then, nor water now, 

Has ever saved a soul; 

Not Jewish rites, but Jesus’ stripes 
Can make the wounded whole. 

“I see the blood,” “I see the blood,” 

A voice from Heaven cries. 

The soul that owns this token true, 

And trusts it, never dies. 

For He who suffered once for all, 

That we might life obtain, 

Will never leave His Father’s throne 
To shed that blood again. 

Brother Quick, in a low voice trembling with passion, 
prayed that God would make us worthy of this chief 
experience. 

There was a moment of the holiest and most breathless si- 
lence I have ever known. I have stood alone at midnight when 
no birds sang, no leaf stirred, and the autumn stars shone 
silently through the unwhispering roof of a dark Russian for- 
est. I have stood on the summit of the Great Gable and gazed 
at the wild soundless mountains all around, in that wild 
soundless moment before the dawn arrives. But never except 
in the Romish Mass, at that multitudinous most sacred mo- 
ment when the heart stops beating, have I tasted so awful a 
silence as this, when the Spirit of God moved in the hearts of 
our little company. I did not greet Him in mine — not yet. 

Brother Brawn uncorked the two bottles of wine and filled 
the tankards. The rapture on the faces round me was tenser 
than after the Bread: especially, I thought, in Pentecost’s 
and my Grandmother’s. The longing to share it possessed me 
more and more every day as I grew up. I hoped that at a very 
tender age I too might break the bread and drink the wine. 

The third and last stage of the Meeting usually began with 
an utterance from Brother Briggs. If everything before had 
led up to the communion, Brother Briggs led on from it. He 
bellowed so loud that at times the roof rang. “Aw, my dear 
brethering, after the cup us all ’ave tasted, there be only one 
thing I’ze goin’ to zay — Praise the Lawd, 0 my Sowl! Praise 
ye the Lawd ! I’m only a pore hignorrint zinner, but I knaws 


I GO TO MEETING 


49 


this yer: That Jesus zhed ’Is bled vur me, and that ’tis uv ’Is 
precious bled as I’ve bin a-privil’ged to drink this mornin’. 
’E ’ath ’olpen hus! 0 ’ow I luv that word hus! 0 ’ow I 
luv that word hus! Turn wi’ me to the gauspel accordin’ to 
St. Matthew, chapter eight verse zeventeen: ’Imself took our 
infirmities and bare our zickness. Praise ’Im, zes I, praise 
’Im! Let ivry thing that ’ath breath praise the Lawd! Bew- 
tivul ! Bewtivul ! 

“Us shud orwis be praisin’ ’Im, brethering, and us shud 
orwis be ’appy in ’Is love. Orwis ’appy! If us be un’appy, 
’tis along of this yer — that us ’ave bin drinkin’ of zum voul 
stream, instead uv they vountains uv ’Is love. And us are 
’appy, arn’t us, brethering? As I luke round at ’ee, all 
brothers and zisters, and zee what triumphs and trophies of 
grace ye all be, I zes to missel’, and I cries aloud to ’eaven: 
Praise ye the Lawd ! Bewtivul ! 

“ ’E ’ave dragged us up out of a norribull pit, a norribull 
pit, out o’ the moiry clay, and shed ’Is blid that us may live wi’ 
’Im vur iver and ivermore. Turn wi’ me to the blessid gaus- 
pel according to St. Jan, the sixth chapter and vivty-zixth 
verse, and ’earken to vat my Lawd zes there: ’E that eateth 
my flesh, ’e zes, an’ drinketh my blid, dwelleth in me, ’e zes, 
an’ I in ’im. 0 ’ow I luv that word ’ Im ! 0 ’ow I luv that 

word ’Im! 0 the blessed thought: to dwell for iver in ’Im, 
an ’Im in us! Bewtivul! Bewtivul! Bewtivul! . . .” 

Then would he bellow forth and would we sing “He sitteth 
o’er the waterfloods” or “I hear the Accuser Roar”: — 

I hear the Accuser roar 
Of ills that I have done, 

I know them well, and thousands more — 

Jehovah findeth none. 

Sin, Satan, Death, press near 
To harass and appal; 

Let but my risen Lord appear, 

Backward they go and fall. 

Before, behind, around, 

They set their fierce array, 

To fight and force me from my ground. 

Along Emmanuel’s way. 


50 


MARY LEE 


I meet them face to face, 

Through Jesus’ conquest blest, 

March in the triumph of His grace. 

Right onward to my rest. 

There, in His Book, I bear 
A more than conqu’ror’s name, 

A soldier, son, and fellow-heir 
Who fought and overcame. 

Bless, bless the Conqueror slain — 

Slain in His victory; 

Who lived, Who died, Who lives again, 

For thee, dear Saint, for thee! 

Brother Brawn made the Announcements. On that first 
occasion, I remember, he made some reference to me (“One 
of tender years worshipping with us for the first time”), to my 
dedication to the Lord, and to his hopes that I might be made 
meet therefor. 

Everybody stared. I flushed, with infant conceit rather 
than pious ecstasy: it was my first appearance in public. 
After Announcements, the Offertory. This was taken in a 
large square box divided into four slit compartments labelled 
in white painted capitals: MINISTRY, FOREIGN FIELD, 
POOR, EXPENSES. My Grandmother was always much ex- 
ercised in her giving. Her own inclinations were more to- 
wards Poor and Foreign Field, but she felt she ought not to 
neglect less showy and alluring Expenses nor coyer, more elu- 
sive Ministry. She would compromise between duty and 
pleasure by putting a sixpence in all four, with perhaps an 
extra copper or two in Poor; of her modest income giving 
half-a-crown to the Lord at this morning service alone. Aunt 
Jael with a rather larger income (and no Mary to support) 
never gave more than a shilling between all four compart- 
ments. She also had a penchant for Expenses: I suppose it 
pleased her — waywardly — as the least human of the four. 

(This fourfold collecting-box allowed a pleasurable width 
of choice, but a quite different consideration had led to its 
introduction and the supersession of the cloth bag formerly in 
use. During a period of several years a lump of sugar had been 


I GO TO MEETING 51 

put in the bag every Lord’s day at Breaking of Bread, and 
though clouds of prayer were offered up to soften the heart 
of the sinner-Saint who played this weekly prank upon his 
Meeting and his Maker, they were all of no avail. He (or 
she) hardened his heart; every Lord’s day the bag was found 
to contain yet another impious lump. Stare Brother Brawn 
never so stark at every giving hand, the sinner remained un- 
detected in his sweet career. It was finally suggested by 
Aunt Jael that a new type of box, with but a narrow slit for 
the coins to pass through, would baffle the evil-doer. The 
choice-of-beneficiare partisans united with her, and they evolved 
between them this fourfold enormity, with its meat-dish 
dimensions and its four defensive slits. Vain precautions! 
Idle hopes! All the sugar-sinner did was to insert a much 
smaller piece than before; usually in Foreign Field. It was 
a marvel to the Saints how he squeezed it through; a tragedy 
how he persevered in his sin.) 

After the Offertory came perhaps another hymn and prayer; 
then the End. We all stood up and sang the following; 

When we will be 
Where we would be, 

When we shall be 
What we should be, 

Things that are not 
Now, nor could be, 

Then shall be — ee 

Our own ! 

While we remained standing, Pentecost raised his hands in 
benediction. And so to dinner. 

Breaking of Bread, though the principal service, was only 
one of five each Lord’s Day at the Room, all of which I at- 
tended regularly before I was seven. There was but an hour 
at home for dinner ere I set forth for Lord’s Day School at 
half past one, which lasted for an hour and was followed 
immediately by the Young Persons’ Prayer-Meeting. I got 
home for tea, after which we all sallied forth to the Gospel 
Address for Unbelievers, usually delivered by Brother Brown- 
ing, two hours long and dreary beyond belief, in a ghostly 


52 


MARY LEE 


atmosphere of guttering candle-light. This was followed 
by another Prayer-Meeting, followed again, at least in the 
summer months, by the Street Testimony, when we all repaired 
to the Strand, and gathered together a mixed circle of friends 
and curious and scoffers — like the Salvation Army in the next 
generation. Even this was not the end; for at home there was 
Reading and prayers, just as on week-days. If I were more 
deadly-tired than usual after that awful Sunday, Aunt Jael 
would spin the prayer out and choose a specially long chapter. 
Most Sundays I went to bed half sick with fatigue, my head 
aching, hardly able to undress. 

Smiling was forbidden, and I had little reason to break the 
rule. Tears, however, were allowed, and I shed them in 
plenty. 

If Breaking of Bread was not our only Meeting, nor was 
our Room the only Meeting in the town. I knew of four 
others. First, the Grosvenor Street Branch Meeting, offspring 
of ours, in the special care of Brother Quappleworthy, who 
preached there on Sunday evenings. Salvation always de- 
rided my Grandmother and Aunt for calling it Grow-vner 
Street. “I’m no scholard,” she said, “but tidden common- 
sense to mispernounce like that. Gross-veener ’tis, and Gross- 
veener oilers ’twill be!” 

Second, there was the Close, Exclusive or Darbyite Meeting, 
ruled over by one Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom, a giant-tall 
man with a flat white face, who reminded me of a walking 
tombstone. The Exclusives or Darbyites regarded us, I sup- 
pose, much as we regarded the rest of Christendom ; as walkers 
in darkness. We regarded them as wandering sheep, foolish 
perhaps, rather than sinful. “Those brethren,” Mr. Pentecost 
described them, “whose consciences lead them to refuse my 
fellowship and to deprive me of theirs.” I never went to their 
Tawborough Meeting while I was a child. 

Third, there was Brother Obadiah Tizzard’s Upper Room 
for Celibate Saints, a kind of loft in which half-a-dozen old 
maids and two or three bachelors met together for medita- 
tion and breaking of bread. All were singular as all were 
single. Their service was one of silent hymnless worship 
interspersed by personal quarrels; silence broken by back- 


53 


I GO TO MEETING 

chat. The last word as well as the first was with Salvation. 
Glory did duty for Brother Lard; less vulgar if more inces- 
sant. All were sustained by the conviction of their unique 
fidelity to scripture. “We break bread in an upper room,” 
said Glory to my Grandmother time and again on Tuesday 
afternoons, “as did Jesus with the Twelve. We are poor an’ 
’umble: an’ so was Jesus. We are not wed, an’ no more was 
Jesus. We shall go to heaven pure: an’ so did Jesus.” 

Fourth, there was Ebenezer. The name was applied in- 
differently to the meeting-room itself or to the one gentle- 
man who attended it. He was the Meeting, the whole Meeting, 
and nothing but the Meeting. He sat on a bench for silent 
prayer all alone by himself, got up and read the Word aloud 
to himself, mounted on a little dais and lengthily harangued 
himself, handed round the bread and wine to himself, and 
(for all I know) took the collection from and appropriated it 
to himself. Ebenezer had once belonged to our Meeting, but 
in some occult way we had displeased him, and he left us for 
Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom, leaving him also in turn for 
the straiter ways of Brother Obadiah Tizzard. Him even 
too he left finally, to worship God in his own way all alone. 
I doubt if he was really mad: odd only, and nearer to Heaven 
than Hanwell. His real name, if he had one, I never knew. 

Perhaps I have said too much of the Meeting; for though 
the one great piece of the whole outer world I saw during 
many years, it was never more than that: something I saw. 
I was never of it, as of Eight Bear Lawn. It never helped to 
fashion my child’s life or longings, nor touched at any time 
the inside life I led: the real Mary. 

One other thing stands clearly apart in my memory as tak- 
ing place that first Lord’s Day. 

Alone together at my bedside my Grandmother confirmed 
my dedication to the Lord’s service. She told me of her 
vision, renewed that day as she had drunk the sacred wine, 
that I should serve Him as a Missionary in the foreign field 
with glory and honour. She told me of the trials and tribula- 
tions I should have to face; but that if a faithful steward, I 
should find my reward in heaven. Then she read aloud my 
favourite seventh Chapter of Revelation. When she came to 


54 


MARY LEE 


the fourteenth verse, These are they which came out of great 
tribulation , I could keep silence no longer. I cried to her 
to stop. Words had already a magical effect on me, and 
could throw me into ecstasy. All through my childhood 
“tribulation” was big magic. Now it threw me into a trance 
of disordered emotion and delight. 

“0 Grandmother,” I cried, “I will! I will! I will serve 
Jesus for ever! I am longing to go through tribulation, 
through lovely lovely tribulation!” 

I broke into crying and laughing. I hungered to suffer, 
to embrace, kiss, adore, go mad, abase myself, throw myself 
on the floor before her feet, love, hold, possess, be possessed, 
mingle. . . . Why could she not put her arms around me, 
seize me, comfort me, crush me? 

For one imperceptible moment my child’s soul understood. 
The moment passed; too swift to be retained, even 
remembered. 

Had I been dreaming? What was it all? . . . Yes, I had 
wanted something, something that Grandmother could not 
give, could not take. 

“You’re overwrought and tired, my dear,” she was saying. 
“What you want is a good sleep.” 


CHAPTER V: I GO TO SCHOOL 


Next morning Grandmother and I sallied forth. It was a 
bright spring day, with a high wind blowing. We went down 
Bear Street and along Boutport Street to where it joins the 
High Street; and just beyond, on the far side of the road, saw 
the old ivy-coloured house whose door was to be my portal 
of worldly understanding. 

My future instructresses, the Misses Glory and Salvation 
Clinker, were our only regular visitors at Bear Lawn. They 
were third cousins of a sort, though a social grade or two lower 
than ourselves, I apprehended, — more Devonshirey, “com- 
moner” than we. Tuesday after Tuesday they came to our 
house for a long-established weekly afternoon of tea and godly 
discoursing. Glory was a tall, thin, bony old woman, with a 
bleary far-away stare. She wore a faded black serge dress, 
whereon the only ornaments were dribble-marks in front, 
which spread fan-wise from her chin to her waist; and a tiny 
black bonnet, tied round her chin sometimes by a ribbon, 
oftener by a piece of string, at one whimsical period by a 
strip of carefully-prepared bacon-rind. She spoke little, 
chiefly of Death and the New Jerusalem, though a perpetual 
clicking noise — represented most nearly by er-er-er, and 
variously explained — always kept you aware of her presence. 
“Life” ran her favourite aphorism, “is but one long prerces- 
sion o 9 deathbeds” She was quite mad, very gentle, wrapped 
in gloom, and beatifically happy. Er-er-er-er was unbroken 
and continuous. You could have used her for a metronome. 

Salvation was a saner, a coarser type: a noisy, aggressive 
woman, whose chief subject of conversation was herself; 
a pious shrew with a big appetite and a nagging tongue. She 
always ate an enormous tea, though Aunt Jael, of whom 
alone in the world she was frightened, would sometimes keep 
her hunger roughly in check. Glory, on the other hand, 
always brought special provisions of her own, and at tea- 
time made her own exclusive preparations. First she went 

55 


56 


MARY LEE 


into the far corner, where she had deposited a net-bag full of 
parcels. From this she abstracted a saucepan, a little spirit- 
lamp, a box of rusks shaped like half moons, a bottle of 
goat’s milk, a porringer and a great wooden spoon. She put 
the lamp on the floor, lighted it, boiled the milk in the little 
saucepan, threw in six or eight of the rusks and stirred with 
the wooden spoon until she produced a steaming mush. She 
didn’t eat this, nor yet did she drink it; neither word de- 
scribes the fearful and wonderful fashion in which she imbibed, 
absorbed, inhaled, appropriated it. Of every spoonful she 
managed to acquire perhaps a quarter; the other three-quarters 
strolled gently down her chin. As she was short-sighted, and 
as when she ate she ignored her food and looked steadily 
ahead at the glories of the New Jerusalem, she often missed 
the spoon altogther. The noise she made was notable. 
Hence Aunt Jael always refused to allow her to eat at our 
table, and consigned her to “Glory’s corner.” 

Though I saw the Clinkers in our house Tuesday after Tues- 
day, I had never yet beheld them in their own. My eyes 
fastened on the brass door plate: 

The Mifses Clinker 

ELEMENTARY EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENT 
For the Daughters 
of Gentlemen. 

The top line was in elegant copy-book writing. 

“Look, Grandmother,” I cried, “Misses is spelt wrong. Why 
do they put M-i-/-s-e-s? It’s silly.” I resented the absurd “f”. 
My faith in the infallibility of the twin Gamaliels at whose 
feet I was to sit was dashed on their very doorstep. Could 
the blind lead the blind? 

“Why, ’tis often written that way,” rejoined my Grand- 
mother, “ ’tis an old way of writing a double S. You’ve 
plenty to learn, you see.” 

If the first line was offensive to common-sense, the remain- 
der of the notice challenged mere truth. Elementary you 


57 


I GO TO SCHOOL 

could not gainsay, but Educational Establishment for a des- 
cription of that frowsy den and those two ignorant old maids 
was florid rather than faithful, while Gentlemen as a term 
to connote the male parents of the clientele was — even in the 
most dim and democratic sense of that unpopular word — 
just false. Finally, there were sons as well as daughters: 
some three or four of the fifteen pupils who comprised the 
school. 

Salvation opened the door, grinning an aggressive welcome, 
but we were officially received by Glory. “Welcome! Wel- 
come to this place!” she cried impressively. I saw that the 
sisters’ roles were here reversed. Glory w r as as unkempt as 
ever, the “black” serge she wore shades greener than her 
Tuesday afternoon one, and quite four inches higher one side 
than the other. As next-worldly and bleary-eyed as in our 
house, her part here was the part of a Principal: Principal 
of an Educational Establishment for the Daughters (yea and 
Sons) of Gentlemen. Salvation, screech she never so loudly, 
was in this schoolroom but second fiddle. 

The schoolroom was an old-fashioned kitchen. The day’s 
dinner was cooked before our eyes on a spit before the fire; 
the pupils acted as turnspits. The room was low, smoke- 
begrimed and dingy; the windows opaque with dirt. On 
the filthy walls were a print of the Duke of Wellington (?), 
all nose and sternness, an old Map of the World on Mer- 
cator’s Projection with the possessions of the Spanish crown 
yellow, and the possessions of the British crown red, and 
many framed texts worked in white and blue wool. One 
huge text, worked in many colours, stood over the doorway: 
A ROD FOR THE FOOL’S BACK. Prov: xxvi. v. 3. There 
were two classes, on different sides of the room. I was put 
with the younger. They were all new faces, except one or 
two that I had seen the day before at the Room. They were, 
indeed, the first children I had ever spoken to. In grown-up 
parlance the pupils would have been dubbed lower-middle 
class, though Marcus Browning, whom I knew by sight be- 
cause he lived in the Lawn in a house just opposite ours, 
was as middle-middle class as Aunt Jael and my Grandmother. 
I felt these distinctions perfectly, and regarded one Susan 


58 


MARY LEE 


Durgles, a lank untidily-dressed fluffy-haired child of seven or 
eight, and the leading spirit in our class, with that feeling of 
quiet disdain which the sureness of higher caste can alone 
bestow: her father was a mere cobbler in Green Lane, and 
while I looked at her as though I knew it, she looked back 
lovingly as though she knew I did. Between Susan and my- 
self sat a pale thin child, Seth Baker, who had St. Vitus’ dance. 
I had never seen anything of the sort before, and stared more 
through curiosity than pity as his slate and slate-pencil shook 
in his hand. 

The first lesson was Rithmetick with Miss Glory called (vul- 
garly) by Miss Salvation Figurin’. With her best far-away 
look Miss Glory peered forth into eternity: “If eggs be twenty- 
eight a shilling” (they were in those days, at any rate in Spring) 
“how many be you agwain to get for, er-er-er-one poun’ three 
shillin’ and vourpence ha’ penny?” 

Up shot the grimy hand of little Seth Baker. “Please’m, 
please’m,” appealingly. He was always first and always 
right, but the rest of us were not suffered to dodge the labour 
of calculation, as Miss Glory would oftenest ignore Seth and 
drop on weaker members of the flock, myself or Susan 
Durgles. 

“Now then, Susan Durgles. ’Ee heard the question. How 
many then-er-er-er-er-er-?” 

“Please’m, I-er-er-er-er-er-don’t know.” 

This shameless mockery was allowed to go unpunished. 
My mind strove to picture Aunt Jael coping with a like imper- 
tinence. I imagined the black wrath, the awful hand upon my 
shoulder. With what new weapon would she scourge me? 
Scorpions, perhaps, if obtainable. 

During our mental arithmetic lesson, the advanced stu- 
dents at the other end of the room were receiving combined 
instruction from the deputy-principal in crochet-work and car- 
ikter-formation. Miss Salvation was shouting technical advice 
of the stitch, slip, three treble, four chain, and draw-through- 
the-first-loop-on-the-hook order, together with more general 
instructions how to earn the joys of heaven and eschew the 
fires of hell. 

After a while the sisters changed places, and my efforts 
were transferred from high finance to handwriting, called 


59 


I GO TO SCHOOL 

(whimsically) by Miss Glory, Penmanship. Miss Salvation 
distributed dirty dog-eared copy books. I was set to work on 
the last page, the Z page, of an otherwise completed and wholly 
filthy book, to reproduce fourteen times in zealous copper- 
plate: “Zeal of Thy House hath eaten me up.” Meanwhile 
Miss Salvation transferred to us her godly bawling as to the 
way we should, or chiefly, shouldn’t go: interlarding this with 
fragments of more specialized holy information, which being 
entirely useless I have never forgotten; e. g., which was the 
longest verse in the Word of God, and which was the shortest; 
the number of books in the Old Testament, and in the New; 
that “straightway” was the private and particular word of 
St. Mark, while “That it might be fulfilled which was 
spoken by the prophet” was the chosen cliche of St. Mat- 
thew. 

Miss Glory took turn with us again for the third lesson: 
Reading. Our book was of course The Book. One mouldy 
old Bible was passed round, and we read in turn from its 
brown-spotted and damp-smelling pages. I think it was my 
first or second day that it fell to my turn to read from the 
eighteenth chapter of the Book of Genesis, where the Lord 
appeared unto Abraham in the plains of Mamre, and Abraham 
said unto the Lord concerning the destruction of Sodom, Wilt 
thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked? I knew the 
passage well, and read with relish and excitement the dimin- 
uendo Peradventures. 

“Good, my child, good. Your readin’ is a credit to your 
dear Grannie and your dear Great-Aunt. You read it fine, as 
to the manner born.” 

For the first time in my life the enchanting incense of praise 
filled my nostrils. I flushed, and while others read of Lot at 
the gate of Sodom and what-not else, I ceased to listen. My 
heart was beating to this refrain: You read it fine — as to the 
manner born. So I was good for something, for all Aunt 
Jael’s daily blows and curses, my Grandmother’s nightly She- 
is-weak-Lord-and-sinful petitions. I read fine! 

The first day Mrs. Cheese called for me; but afterwards 
I was entrusted to Marcus Browning as escort. He was two 
years older: “a good child, not like some I could name” 
(Aunt Jael), “Born of Saints” (Grandmother), and possessed 


60 MARY LEE 

of the more fleshly merit of also living on the Lawn. We 
spoke little together. 

The event I remember best of my first days at the Elemen- 
tary Educational Establishment was a fight. Susan Durgles 
was for ever making fun of poor little Seth Baker’s affliction. 
One day when Miss Glory and Miss Salvation were both out 
of the room Susan went a little too far. 

“Look to ’im, look to ’im!” she mocked. “He looks like 
wan o’ thase yer weather-cocks what wag and wobble about on 
the church steeple. Goes like this, do he? Ha, ha. Can’t 
help hisself, can’t he, palaverin’ li’l wretch?” She flapped 
her hands in Seth’s walrus way, and nodded her head convul- 
sively in mocking imitation of poor little St. Vitus. 

He was a meek child, but this time he could stand it no 
longer. “Dirty cobbler’s lass!” he cried, and banged Susan 
full in the face with his small clenched fist. A regular fight 
began. My sympathies were wholly pro-Seth. Was not 
Susan the sneerer, the tormenter, the tyrant, the Aunt Jael, and 
Seth the harried one, the oppressed one, the victim, the me? 

Seth punched and lunged and butted with his head. Susan 
slapped and shoved and scratched. The boy kicked in pay- 
ment for the scratching, and the girl tore at his hair to get even 
for the kicks. Fair play and fair-weather methods went by 
the board. Rules are for the ring; when ultimate things are 
at stake, a child’s sneer at her schoolfellow’s deformity to be 
repaid, a nation’s existence to be lost or won in war, then red 
tooth and claw tear the paper conventions of sport asunder, 
and each side fights to win. Miss Glory returned to witness 
a bleeding and bedraggled pair still scuffling savagely. Not 
one of the rest of us had dared or wished to intervene. Very 
properly Miss Glory decided that we were the guiltier ones, 
and while the two principals amid tears of gradual forgiveness 
were hustled away to soap and water, we lookers-on had to 
stand up on our forms for one solemn hour with our hands 
behind our backs while Miss Glory preached us a sermon; 
the text being Matthew five, nine. 

A brighter feature of school-life was the frequent sweet- 
meats brought, passed round and devoured. There were 
chocolate drops, sticks of Spanish, peppermint humbugs, 


I GO TO SCHOOL 61 

jujubes, lollipops and toffees. I had never tasted such dainties 
before. 

Wude ’ee like a sweetie?” asked Susan Durgles one day. 

“Yes please,” said I. 

“Quite sure, are ’ee?” 

“Yes please. Please give me one.” 

“Nit likely, nit likely,” she sneered. 

“But why?” I flushed, not understanding. 

“Why? And a very gude raison fer why. ’Cause ’ee 
gobble up other volks’ sweeties fast enough, but you’m not 
so slippy about bringin’ any of yer own fer me to eat, are ’ee? 
Nit likely.” 

I felt as though she luad struck me in the face. All the 
other children were looking and listening. It was not that I 
ever had any sweets of my own which I consumed in greed 
and secret, it was not that I had any money, or hope of money, 
for buying any. The sting of Susan’s words lay in this: that 
I ought to have seen and pondered on the fact that while I 
took all that was offered me I offered nothing in return. 
I was in the wrong, and therefore all the angrier. 

“You wait!” I cried. My tone was not too confident, for 
in a second’s rapid survey I could not see the how or the where- 
withal of obtaining sweets to fling at Susan. It must however 
have been confident enough to inspire her with a lively sense 
of joys to come. 

“I didn’t mean nort. Only my li’l joke. Have a lollipop — 
or two.” 

On the way home I left Marcus Browning in silence, and 
evolved plans. Suppose I were to ask Aunt Jael to give me 
a penny ! My heart beat at the thought. I rehearsed to my- 
self my opening “Please Aunt Jael” a score of times. Such, 
rehearsings, inspired by my timidity, served always to increase 
it. Then I remembered a bottle of acid-drops in the medi- 
cine cupboard in the bedroom. Dare I beg a few? Or take 
a few? suggested the Tempter, take being His pretty word for 
steal. This was the easier plan, but I shunned its dishonesty. 
I would ask her first. Or ask even for the penny, I decided, 
if at the moment I found courage enough. 

All the way through dinner I put off making my appeal. 


62 MARY LEE 

Several times I moistened my lips and came to the very brink, 
where the glimpsed precipice of Aunt Jael’s wrath drove me 
back. Yet brave the precipice I must, or tumble into the 
abyss of Susan’s scorn on the morrow. 

At last I blundered in, heart beating and face flushed: 
“Please may I have a penny?” 

“A penny?” 

“To buy some sweets.” 

“Highty-tighty! Don’t you get enough to eat here? Never 
heard of such a thing. Your Grandmother and I never had 
pence for sweetmeats and such trash. Be off with you.” 
“But—” 

“No buts here.” The thorned stick stamped the floor. 
Grandmother concurred. 

Fair means had failed. I would try foul. By her mean- 
ness she had forced me to help myself to her acid-drops. My 
guilt be on her head. 

I waited until she was well away into her after-dinner doze, 
and Grandmother safely closeted for her afternoon’s study of 
the Word. Then I stole softly up to Aunt Jael’s bedroom. 
Her physic-cupboard was on the far side of the bed. It had 
a sliding door; inside there were four shelves, the bottom 
shelf dedicated to Aunt Jael’s night-needs. At every watch 
she fed. Once or twice I had slept with her, and discovered 
that though she had rusks and beef-tea just before getting into 
bed (soon after a heavy supper) and rusks and a cup of green 
tea while she was dressing (just before a heavy breakfast), 
yet she got out of bed twice during the night to brew herself 
a potion and chew old crusts or gingerbread-nuts or rusks. The 
bottom shelf was complete with every accessory of these four 
bedroom feasts: spirit lamp, matches, saucepan, cups; green 
tea, Ceylon tea, beef-tea, meat extract, herbs of divers proper- 
ties and powers; gin, cowslip wine, elderberry wine, brandy; 
with many tins devoted to gingerbreads, half-moon rusks 
(bought at the same baker’s as Miss Glory’s), seed-cake, Aber- 
nethy biscuits, and old crusts rebaked in the oven. The upper 
shelves bristled with medicine bottles and jars. These were 
grouped methodically according to the ills they combated. 
There was a cough-and-colds corner. For burns scalds and 
chaps, bruises weals and wens, there was poor-man’s-friend, 


I GO TO SCHOOL 63 

a great jar of goose grease, and a small white pot of mixed 
whitening, most drastic of all; often my Grandmother used it 
on my body after a bad beating, fitly borrowing Aunt Jael’s 
whiting to ease the marks of Aunt Jael’s stick. The particular 
galaxy of bottles from which Grandmother had oftenest to 
beg and borrow for me consisted of various telling encourage- 
ments and exhortations to those like myself whose mills ground 
slowly and withal exceedingly small. Castor oil, Epsom salts, 
senna pods, fennel seeds and roots of jalep: I knew them all. 
It was to King Senna I answered swiftliest (five pods to be 
soaked in a tumbler of water for a few hours, and drunk last 
thing before retiring to bed) ; to replenish this jar meant fre- 
quent visits to the druggist’s, for which my Grandmother paid. 
To pods she added prayers. Whenever the last thing before 
retiring chanced to be the tepid tumblerful, the last thing but 
one was always a supplication to Heaven to speed the parting 
dose. “0 Lord,” pleaded my Grandmother on her knees, 
“Bless the means! Bless the means, Lord; and if it be Thy 
will grant her relief!” But Aunt Jael relied on worldly 
remedies exclusively. Her medicine cupboard was her shield 
and buckler, and like the cupboard in the front room 
downstairs, ministered to her pride of possession also. 
And the night-life made possible by that festive bottom shelf! 

0 ’twas a Prince of Cupboards, a vineyard planted with bottles. 

Today I had eyes for one bottle only. I reached it down, 

and regarded the precious objects which would confound the 
sneers of Susan. Thief! said a voice within, as I tipped the 
bottle up and curved my other hand to receive. 

Susan’s sneers! urged the Tempter. How just they are, 
and how they wound you! I hung doubtfully; the acid-drops’ 
fate and my own trembled in the balance. I remembered how 
Aunt Jael counted everything. For a certainty every acid 
drop was counted; she would miss the meanest couple, and 
then the sequel! No, I dare not. 

The moment my indecision was over, I was braver. Once 

1 had decided I dare not eat any, I dared to reflect how pleas- 
ant they would have been to eat. It was the bravery of 
cowardice, that valour that is the better part of discretion. 
I smelt the bottle’s mouth long and longingly. Suddenly the 
fair odour inspired in me a new idea. I would just suck the 


64 


MARY LEE 


drops, and then put them back. They were of the shiny sort, 
which judicious sucking would hardly change; not your dan- 
gerous powdery acid drops, which merest touch of the tongue 
transforms. I set to sucking as evenly as possible, so that 
none would look smaller than the rest. They were delicious, 
and I enjoyed recompense for my noble decision not to steal. 
Suddenly my heart stood still. The door-handle turned. To 
fling the bottle into its place in the cupboard, and slide the cup- 
board door to, was the work of a fevered moment. Aunt Jael 
entered. She must surely have seen. My guilt was clear, 
for all the look of meekness I sought to wear. She had her 
suspicions too of what the guilt was: she seized my arm and 
ducked her nose down to my mouth to confirm them. Acid- 
drops have a tell-tale odour, unique, unmistakable. My 
smell bewrayed me. Out of my own mouth I stood convicted. 

“I thought as much,” — even for her the words came grimly 
— “how many have you stolen?” 

“None, Aunt Jael.” 

There coursed through my veins the perverse exultant de- 
light of her who utters a great white lie. Not for anything 
would I have told a downright falsehood. Here was an answer 
true as Truth herself — sucking is not stealing — yet by the look 
(and smell) of things plainly false. Aunt Jael darkened. 

“I-have-not-stolen-one. I-have-not-eaten-one,” I repeated, 
noddingly. 

“Liar, black little liar!” she shouted. “The rope-end at 
last; you’ll taste it now.” 

She rummaged under the bed. As she barred the egress 
by the foot of the bedstead, I scrambled over the bed, gained 
the door, and fled to the attic. She was after me at once, wield- 
ing the famous weapon, a good yard of stout old ship’s rope, 
a relic of Grandfather Lee or maybe Great-Grandfather Vick- 
ary. In the middle of the attic stood a large elliptical table. 
Round and round it she chased me. It was a defiance I had 
never shown before. She was appalled. I was appalled. De- 
fiance was a quality she never encountered, and now for meek 
miserable little me to show it! Her features were a livid blue- 
black. She lashed out with the rope frequently; I dodged 
and ducked. The attic was wide enough for me to elude her 
reach. In a corner I should have had no chance; so Knight 


65 


I GO TO SCHOOL 

of the Round Table was the part I played. Once the rope 
grazed my shoulder. After ten minutes perhaps, the part of 
slasher at emptiness had become so undignified that Aunt Jael 
suddenly stopped. A ruse? A minute’s rest before a last 
wild spring for victory? No; for she could hardly breathe. 
Then she gave me a long cruel stare, eyes saying I W ill Repay : 
for all my defiance I cowered. She went out, slammed the 
door behind her, and stumped heavily down the uncarpeted 
attic-stairs. 

The heat of battle over, my spirits sank. Why had I defied 
her? There was no ultimate escape. For every gesture of 
defiance, every moment of that round-the-table chase, she 
would repay me a hundredfold. Yet what else could I have 
done? If I had owned up to stealing her sweets and thus 
(perhaps) incurred a lesser wrath, I should have owned up to 
something I had not done. I should have lied. I had told the 
truth instead, and my only reward was a clear conscience. (I 
was staring, as so often, at the great blue picture on the wall, 
whose deep violet blue seemed to he toned down by the cold 
grey-blue of the room; an old print of some tropical sea with a 
volcano belching forth fire, smoke and lava in the background, 
— the Caribbean Sea perhaps, with one of the Mexican craters, 
or the Mediterranean with Vesuvius; a gaudy gorgeous thing 
such as sailors buy on their travels.) 

I waited over an hour before risking a descent. When I 
turned the half-landing by Mrs. Cheese’s bedroom door, I 
sprang back. There beneath me, sitting on the stairs, her 
feet on the main landing just outside her bedroom door, was 
Aunt Jael. A small table was drawn up to the foot of the 
stairs. A good tea was spread thereon; she was eating and 
drinking heartily. I spied the rope by her side; she heard my 
footsteps above her, and her hand closed on it. I went back. 
She meant grim business. Still, she could not stay there all 
night. I sat down outside the attic door and listened. Mrs. 
Cheese cleared away her tea things, grumbling; Grandmother 
came up to her, gently remonstrating. She stayed on. Dark- 
ness set in. I heard her stamp the floor for Mrs. Cheese to 
bring her supper. After all, she might stay there for the 
night : knowing her will to be not weaker than mine, I put my- 
self in her place, and I felt almost sure she would. I was 


66 


MARY LEE 


hungry, and there would be no escape. Escape I must. 
How? My first plan was that Mrs. Cheese — Aunt Jael would 
have to get up to let her pass, I reflected, since either one of 
them was as broad as the attic staircase — should bring me 
something to eat when she came upstairs to bed. Then I could 
survive till the morrow, sleep on the attic floor, and confound 
Aunt Jael. I would show her who had the stronger will. 
The weak point of this notion was that I could not shout in- 
structions to Mrs. Cheese to bring me something to eat, nor 
rely on her doing it unprompted. A more desperate plan sug- 
gested itself, and before I had time to shrink back, I put it into 
action. 

I slid down the banisters and took a flying vault safely over 
Aunt Jael’s head and the little supper table in front of her. 
If there had been a big open space beyond, all might have 
been well. Unfortunately the banister that surrounded the 
sort of well in which you saw the ground floor began only a 
yard beyond Aunt Jael’s door; my flying feet knocked against 
it, and I fell; I was hurt badly, and could not get up. In a 
second Aunt Jael was up, and at me with the rope, savagely. 
She saw I was in pain and helpless, so lammed the more 
brutally. I screamed. Grandmother came running upstairs, 
and with a strength and daring she rarely used wrenched the 
rope from her sister’s hands. 

I limped downstairs. 

“Before you eat, child, confess your lie, and apologize to 
your aunt for telling it.” Grandmother was unwontedly stern. 

“What lie?” I did not flinch. 

“Smell her! Smell her!” shouted Aunt Jael. 

“Mary, in all her life your mother told not one single lie.” 

“It’s not a lie,” feebly. “I swear it,” pitiably. 

At last Grandmother succeeded where Aunt Jael had failed 
(this was a little sub-triumph in my defeat). I told the true 
version and for all the Tempter’s hints I knew that my Grand- 
mother was right that evening when in our bedside prayer she 
pleaded, “Forgive her, Lord; in her heart she lied!” 

Next day, I learnt from Mrs. Cheese that the bottle of acid 
drops had been flung by Aunt Jael into the ashpit. I rescued 
it, and pocketed the contents, which were stuck together like 
a coarse hard sponge, emerald bright. There were thirty- 


I GO TO SCHOOL 


67 


seven in all. By the distribution of this lordly largesse I rose 
high in the esteem of the school. A pocket full of acid drops: 
my position was assured. None doubted their virginity, all 
consumed them with zest. Thus did I triumph over Susan 
Durgles, who sucked humbly; humblier, had she known that 
another had sucked before her. 

School took but a small place in my life. The music-lessons 
I began to take at home were much more to me: for piano- 
playing was a worldly luxury some generous whim of Aunt 
Jael’s supplied. Her reward was her own loud announcement, 
whenever topics even remotely musical were mentioned, “/ 
pay for the child’s music.” These lessons, and a very occa- 
sional dress and hat — once a pair of mittens — were all she 
contributed to my upkeep in all those years. I am glad it was 
never more. She had no call to do it, she often explained. 
Well and good: I had no call to be beholden to her. All my 
expenses, nothing heavy, but heavy enough for a light purse, 
were borne by my Grandmother: and thus at the end of their 
lives, Aunt Jael had three times as much to bequeath as her 
sister. Grandmother accepted five pounds a year from my 
great-uncle John on my behalf, refusing his offer of more, and 
taking nothing of what my father’s relatives had proposed 
from the beginning. Yet she would have laughed, and the 
mirthless Saints would have laughed, if you had called her 
proud. Meanwhile, because of these music lessons, Aunt Jael 
cried her generosity from the house-tops. I little cared: I 
was grateful. I could soon play all the simpler tunes in 
Hoyle’s Anthems. 

My life was still entirely spent in the Bear Lawn household; 
I was never allowed to see anything of the other schoolchil- 
dren, Saints or no Saints, beyond school hours. None ever 
crossed our threshold, n’or I theirs. I watched the daily 
struggle between the two old women, Grandmother and Great- 
aunt. I read the Word. I -prayed, and I lived wild lives 
within myself. I was for ever visualizing, thinking out dramas 
in which I and those I knew would figure, living in a self- 
fashioned self-fancied future, deciding on lines of conduct in 
innumerable situations I invented. At this time my imagin- 
ings did not run, as with megalomaniac little boys, to ambi- 


68 


MARY LEE 


tious futures for myself: great sounding deeds done before 
admiring multitudes. My castle building was conditioned by 
the narrow humble life I knew. The stuff of my dreams was 
my own hates and loves. 

At this early time my surest emotions were I think three: 
hate of my tyrant aunt; longing for some one to love and some 
one to love me; fear of eternity and hell. I would play with 
these terrible ideas sometimes with the cheerfulness natural 
to six-years-old, more often with the despondency more natural 
to myself. Hate achieved no triumph of hate even, would eat 
itself out miserably and everlastingly in my visions as hate 
always. Longing was never appeased ; love would never come 
to me. Fear was justified of her child. 

A cheerful vision I conjured up was Aunt Jael on bended 
knee before me, making a hoarse and humble appeal to be 
forgiven for her wrong-doings, to be shriven of her many sins. 
I revelled in the delightful picture. How I dealt with it de- 
pended on my mood. If it was soon after a beating (a real- 
life beating) my conduct would be just, stern, inexorable. “Go 
to, thou vixen, thy judgment awaits thee!” ; and I would deliver 
her over to the tormentors. If beatings of late had been few 
or frail, and a sentimental rather than revengeful mood held 
me, then I would act with a high Olympian generosity, im- 
agination’s sweetest revenge, and lifting her gently to her feet 
would say “Thy sins are forgiven thee — Go, and sin no more!” 

I often tried to create an imaginary person to love, some one 
I could embrace and be embraced by. Once I got as far as 
picturing a face for perfect loving, but I found that it was the 
spirit, the soul, the person who gave you love, and my perfect 
face (a dark young girl’s) though I named it Ruth Isabel, re- 
mained a face and a name only. There was no real Ruth 
Isabel behind the face; so she faded away. I had one success, 
one consolation. By a hard effort — closed eyes, clenched fist9 
and fervid prayer to God — I could sometimes picture my dead 
mother so vividly, that I could literally feel and return her 
embraces. She was clad always in white; her face was warm, 
and glowed. “Kiss me, Mary,” I could make the vision say, 
though whensoever I put out my hungry arms to draw her 
closer to my breast, the vision fled. 

Of my chief fears, hell and eternity, the first was always 


I GO TO SCHOOL 69 

terrible I pictured it in all the luxurious completeness of 
h'orror Brother Brawn described — yet I had this comfort: I 
believed in the Lord, and He could save me. But save me for 
what? He rescued me from hell to grant me eternity in 
heaven, and from His boon there was none to rescue me. 
Eternal life! Once my brain attempted to grapple with ever- 
lastingness and to think out the full frightful meaning of 
living for ever , I sickened with fear. There was no escape: 
ever: anywhere. A terror, unanswerable, unpitying, con- 
trolled me. One way out of it, one mad child’s trick to cheat 
Infinity was to convince myself I had never been born. 
“You’re not real !” I would say to myself, “You’re only dream- 
ing you’re alive. You’re a dream of God’s. You have never 
really lived, so you can never really die. So you escape eter- 
nity. You cannot live for ever, if you are not alive at all!” 

This belief I helped by staring into my own eyes in the glass, 
my face close up to its reflection. After a minute or two, a 
tense expectancy would seize me. I was elated, exhilarated. 

“Mary, what are you, who are you?” I cried to the face' in 
the mirror. 

My own voice sounded strange and far away, belonged to 
some one else, proved that I had no voice, that there was no 
real me, that I was Another’s dream. 

“What are you? What are you?” 

The exhilaration and the expectancy grew. I was on the 
brink of solving the mystery of all life: my child’s mind would 
find what the universe was, what / was. . . . The exaltation 
was almost more than I could bear. I kissed wildly the reflec- 
tion of my own mouth in the mirror. Suddenly, impercep- 
tibly, elusively, the great hope vanished. There was a swift 
reaction in my mind and body, and I half swooned away on to 
a chair. 

In other moods my picturings were completely black. I 
saw my future as an unbroken series of savage triumphs for 
Aunt Jael. She discovered new and horrible beatings. I 
should be left quite alone with her: Grandmother would die. 
She would flog me from morn till night, always brutally, 
always unjustly. Or I would think of love as a thing I should 
never, never know. I pictured myself a lonely old woman, 
loved by none, loving none. Or, if I thought of hell, I doubted 


70 


MARY LEE 


my salvation, and suffered in imagination all its pains. Or, 
with eternity, the fiction that I was not alive failed me dismally. 
I pictured myself sitting for ever on a throne near God, bearded 
and omnipotent. A billion years rolled away, I was still no 
nearer the end, no nearer escape from my soul, from life, from 
me. Sometimes I shrieked. My cries rent heaven. God 
motioned the golden harps to cease and consigned me to the 
torments of hell. I was borne downwards at incredible speed 
by two bright angels who, as we got lower and lower, took on 
the shape of devils. They cast me shrieking into the lake of 
fire and brimstone. Sometimes in heaven I could keep my 
agony mute. This was no better. Amid the angels’ psalmody 
there rang in my heart like a beaten bell: For ever , for ever , 
for ever ! — taunting me into a supreme feverish effort to think 
For ever out. Then came the last moment, the crisis of hyp- 
notized fear, as my finite mind flung itself against the iron 
door of the Infinite. The struggle lasted but a few seconds, 
or I should have gone mad. Then the warm back-rush of 
physical relief as the blood poured back into my brain. 

I came to believe there were two persons in myself, two dis- 
tinct souls in my body. It was my way of accounting for the 
two strangely different manners of thought I experienced. 
I thought and felt things in an ordinary, conscious, methodical 
way — the self-argumentative, cunning, careful little girl that 
most often I was. At other times, ideas, promptings, wishes, 
beliefs came to me in quite different fashion — or not so much 
to me as from within me, from some inner source of my being. 
They coursed through my blood and stormed my brain; they 
were blind, warm, intuitive; supernatural, sudden. There is 
no one word in my vocabulary, still less was there in those 
seven-year-old days, to define or explain this distinction. 
It was no matter of Reason with Common-sense on the one 
hand, and Conscience or Instinct on the other. Conscience — 
“God knocking at your heart’s door,” Grandmother called it — 
is a very incomplete description; at most it could apply only 
to the good promptings of the other Self. For the reverse 
reason Instinct will not suffice. It was no question of two 
modes of thought or feeling, but of two persons inhabiting my 
body. The Mary Lee every one saw and knew was the two of 


71 


I GO TO SCHOOL 

them taken together. I called them Me and the Other Me. I 
felt the difference between them in a physical way. With the 
more usual self, my blood flowed gently, my pulse was nor- 
mal. The other self marched through my flesh like an army 
with banners; the hand of this more mysterious me literally 
knocked at my heart; she came from some deep inmost place 
and vanished as swiftly as she came. She went; my pulse 
flagged. 

My loneliness too encouraged the sociable idea that there 
were two people inside me — Two’s company, one’s none! In 
bed or blue attic, duologues were better than monologues: but 
as a rule I could not arrange these, because Other Me blew 
where she listed; I could never fix her for a talk as I chose. 
She came with some sudden word or warning, prompting or 
precept — and was gone. When I was bent on some moment’s 
peccadillo, she — he? — would come, whisper “It is wrong”; 
for one moment the whispering voice was my voice, the voice 
of another Me, a new person and soul whose being seemed to 
flood my veins. She fled, and I was alone again. The way I 
tried to formulate the experience was this: One is my normal 
human sinful Self, is Me, Mary; Two is the Spirit of God 
possessing me, the movement in me of the divine, the indwell- 
ing spirit, the Holy Ghost made manifest in my flesh. I saw 
it all as a special privilege, a new proof that the Lord had set 
me apart. 

Sometimes the two selves battled for mastery. I thought 
that one thing was the right course to follow, and felt that 
another was. I knew it was the feeling I ought to obey, though 
sometimes I was not positive of its divine, Other Me, Apostolic 
quality. In such cases my plan was to count thirty-seven — 
aloud as a rule — and if at the end of my count the impulse 
was still in me, I obeyed it. The test itself was of course of 
Other origin. “In cases of doubt, count thirty-seven” came to 
me one day with a warm lilt of authority I did not question. 
I adopted it as my sacred number for all emergencies. When 
Aunt Jael was flogging me — I remember well how it helped 
me in that rope-end beating after I had sucked the sweets — I 
would shut my eyes and see if I could count thirty-seven be- 
tween each stroke. Success depended on my rate — and hers; 


72 MARY LEE 

in any case the mere endeavour seemed to lessen the pain. 

Note, too, that there were thirty-seven acid drops in the 
fatal bottle, and that my favourite psalm, number 137, was 
on page 537 of my old Bible: — Heavenly proofs of the pure 
metal of my golden number. 


(Note: This chapter in my notes fills exactly 37 pages! — M. L.) 


CHAPTER VI: CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, THE 
SCARLET WOMAN AND THE GREAT GOD BENA- 
MUCKEE 

That rope-end beating was a bad one, but I can remember 
worse. The worst one of all came a year or so later, when 
I was about seven years old, and formed part of a series of 
events that stands out with peculiar clearness in my memory. 

It all began with porridge lumps. 

One morning Aunt Jael went into the kitchen before break- 
fast, and began stirring at the porridge pan and looking for 
something to grumble at. 

“Lumps!” she cried angrily. “Lumps! What’s this mean? 
’Tis a pity if a woman of sixty don’t know how to cook a pan- 
ful of porridge. Or too idle to stir it, most likely. Lumps! 
Lumps ! ” 

Mrs. Cheese lost her temper: the end desired. 

“What d’ye expect? Do ’ee think I cude see to the stuff 
while I’m trapsing up. and downstairs to yer bedrume all the 
time waiting on ’ee ’and an’ foot, an’ you thumpin’ and bangin’ 
away wi’ yer stick ivry blissid minute? I can’t be in two places 
at once, and I ain’t agwain ter try. Lumps indade! I’ve ’ad 
enuff o’n. You do’n yersell, oP lady.” 

Whereupon did Aunt Jael aim the lid of the pan at Mrs. 
Cheese’s head, which it just managed to miss. A frying-pan 
full of half-cooked potatoes lay to the wronged one’s hand for 
retort perfect. She mastered the dear temptation when she saw 
my Grandmother quietly edging up toward Aunt Jael; found 
vent instead in bitter irony. Sarcasm hits surer than sauce- 
pan-lids, and harder. 

“Behavin’ like a true Brethering, aren’t us? Like a meek 
bleatin’ Christyun lamb as doesn’t know it’s weaned? I tells 
yer straight, Miss Vickary, I crosses your doorstep this same 
day. Ye’ll be done wi’ yer lumps termorrer.” 

Grandmother contrived to calm her down till she consented 
to stay after all ; and, with more difficulty, to close her sister’s 
mouth. 


73 


74 


MARY LEE 


Mrs. Cheese, however, was not the one to sit down under a 
saucepan lid, and I think it was revenge, joining forces with 
a long-repressed love for a good “tell,” which prompted her 
to close the kitchen door that afternoon when the dinner things 
were put away, and to sit down to tell me a story. She had 
once begun to speak to me of fairies, and Aunt Jael’s reproof 
was too violent and too recent for her to have forgotten. 
Rather it was that she remembered it, and rejoiced, as she 
posed me the unfamiliar sweet question: 

“Wude ’ee like me to tell ’ee a story?” 

“Yes, please, Mrs. Cheese.” I cocked my ear. Far away 
in the dining-room the dread one snored. 

“Wall then. This tale is all about what a sailor-man did. 
Even ’er” (she jerked her finger in the proper direction) “cude 
say nothin’ agin it, for ’tis all true. ’Tis true gospel, I’ll be 
blummed if tidn’ : tho’ , Dear Lawr, some o’ the things is that 
wunnerful that if a body had told me, and I did’n knaw fer 
certain that ’twas all true, and all written ’pon a buke that the 
party wrote hisself, I shude ’a zed they was lyin’ , I shude 
railly. ’Tis’n everybody, you knaws, as lives a life like we, 
always quiet and peaceful like, always the same ol’ place. 
There’s many volk, sailor chaps and sich like fer the better- 
mos’ part, that has middlin’ excitin’ times in these yer vorrin 
parts, and zees the most wunnerful things. Wall, this one 
chap in partic’lar lived for thirty year all alone on a desert 
island with not another soul to pass the time o’ day with, thirty 
years I tell ’ee if ’twas a day. Robinson Crewjoe ’is name 
was — ” 

“Why?” 

“ ’Cos fer why? ’Cos that’s what ’e were caaled, o’ course, 
silly mump’ead! Anyway, there ’twas. Some say ’e ’ad ’is 
wife and childer to the island with ’im, and they talks of the 
Zwiss Vamily Robinson, but ’tisn’t true anyway; first ’cos ’e 
weren’t alone in an island if there was other folk with ’im, 
second ’cos he wasn’t a Zwiss, or any sort o’ them vurriners, 
third because ’e ’adn’t got no vamily, ’cept for ’is ol’ vamily 
at ’ome that is, as tried to stop’n runnin’ away to sea, ’is ol’ 
father and ’is ol’ mother — ” 

“What did his father do?” 

“Didn’t du nort.” 


CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, SCARLET WOMAN 75 

“I mean like Brother Briggs is an oilman and Brother 
Quaint keeps a baker’s shop — ” 

“Oh I don’t know thikky. ’Tis some ’undreds o’ years agone 
since it all first ’appened, you knows. ’Owsomever — ” And so 
on: the whole imperial tale. 

When in later years I read the book for myself I found how 
accurately she had stressed the salient points. The father of 
young Robinson, always growlin’ and scoldin’ like some others 
she cude mention; the young raskel himself with whom these 
methods were not entirely displaced; the flight to sea; the ship 
doing battle with Turks and Portugeeses and Vrenchies and 
Spanyerds; the wreck on the desert island, young Robinson 
alone being saved; his infinite resource, practical, mechanical, 
architectural, culinary, dietetic; his ills, moral and physical. 
— Every known pain of the body he suffered, finding some 
slight alleviation, it is true, in the miniature Aunt Jaelian 
physic-cupboard from the all providing Wreck. His worst 
affliction was a malady — the Blues or Deliverums — at once 
moral and physical, a kind of soul’s nightmare accompanied 
by sharp “abdominable pains.” All around him, as he 
writhed in agony, roared an islandful of wild beasts; tigers 
and jeraffs and hullyfints and camyels and drumming-dairies — 

“What’s that?” I remember asking. 

“Wull, either ’tis camyels wi’ one ’ump to the back, or else 
’tis camyels what ’ave one ’ump and drummy-dairies two; ’tis 
one or ’tother — and bears and munkeys and girt sarpints what 
they caal boy-constructors, I don’t knaw fer why: — a regler 
munadgery like Tobbery Vair — and birds too. The pore chap 
’ad one particler parrit or cocky-two as they caals ’un, what 
’e taught to ’oiler out: Tore ol’ Robinson Crewjoe! pore ol’ 
Robinson Crewjoe!’ ’Tis true what I tell ’ee, my dear, ’tis 
true’s I zit yer.” 

Nor did I doubt it. The notion of an invented story was 
one I could not have conceived. 

The narrative came particularly near home with the arrival 
of the savages, and the domestication and conversion of Man 
Vriday — “or Man Zaturday maybe — I know ’tis one o’ the 
days o’ the wake.” Robinson saw that he could atone for his 
own unholy past by snatching this black-skinned brand from 
the burning. I listened eagerly, with conscious professional 


76 


MARY LEE 


interest; the snatching of black-skinned brands was the very 
work for which the Lord had set me apart. 

“And so he praiched the Gospel to ’im, and shewed ’im all 
the mercies o’ God A ’mighty.” 

“But could he, Mrs. Cheese? Was he a Saint, was he one 
of the Elect?” 

“I don’t knaw fer certin’. Don’t rekellect it ackshilly zay- 
ing ’pon the buke that ’e was a Plymith Brethering in so many 
worrds as the sayin’ is. A Methody maybe. But that’s neither 
’ere nor there.” 

“But it is, it’s very important,” I cried, “it’s everything!” 

“ ’Owsomever, ’e taught this yer Man Yriday ter pray ter the 
Lord. That’s gude nuff. ‘You goes down on yer knees, 
and you prays to Im,’ ’e zes. ‘Why that’s jis’ what we do too,’ 
zes Man Vriday, to our God’ — meanin’ a girt idol set up on a 
hill in the other island ’e corn’d from, zummat like the girt 
idol o’ Miss Vickary’s in the corner there in that ol’ front- 
room uv ’em. ‘Us vails vlat on our vaces before un,’ ’e zes, 
‘and us ’owls out O-o-o-o Benamuckee! O-o-o-o Benamuckee!’ 
that bein’ the god’s name, as yer mid say. Tis a fac’, I’ll 
ait vire an smoke if tid’n.” 

“Did he convert him?” anxiously. 

“Zome zay ’e did, but I shudn’ ’ardly think ’tis true, fer Man 
Vriday turns to ol’ Robinson Crewjoe — ’e was an ol’ chap 
now, you knaws, ’aving been there the bettermos’ part o’ thirty 
years — and ’e zes to ’im, zes ’e, ‘I don’t zee much odds to’t, 
master. You prays to your God up i’ the sky, and you zes 
‘0 God’ and we prays to our god up i’ the mountain, and we 
zes ‘0 Benamuckee.’ He’m a great god too, a mighty great 
god like yourn; I don’t zee much odds to’t, master,’ ’e zes. So 
if ’e did convert ’im, it was a middlin’ stiff job, I reck’n. And 
I ain’t afraid ter zay that ol’ Robinson was a middlin’ big fule 
ter try. If a vorrin savage is so big a fule as to lay down 
flat on ’is stummick and ’oiler out ‘O-o-o-o Benamuckee’ and 
sich like jibberish, ’e’s a bigger fule still as tries to make ’im 
mend ’is ways. Missyunaries can’t du much gude wi’ such fules 
as they — ” 

Blasphemy supreme. The listener behind the door could re- 
strain herself no longer. Aunt Jael stumped in. 

“Well?” 


CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, SCARLET WOMAN 77 

“Wull?” said the raconteuse , bold and unabashed. She had 
the morning’s score to settle. 

“Well? Well this: 9 ee talked about notice this morning, 
madam. Now I give ’ee notice.” 

“Du yer, Miss Vickary, du yer? Wull, I don’t take it then. 
I’m Missis Lee’s servant as much as I’m yourn. You only 
pays ’alf my money, tho’ you may du six-vivths o’ the mis- 
tressin’. An’ ’tis no lies I’ve been tellin’; ’tis all true 
gauspel — ” 

“Order!” stamped the thorned stick. “ ’Ee leave a week to- 
day. Silence!” (For repartee was ready.) “And for you, 
Child, there’s no excuse. None. You knew. You knew 
your sin sitting listening all through that pack of lies — ” 

“’Tiz not lies!” cried Mrs. Cheese. “’Tis true’s I stand 
yer,” for she had risen to face the adversary. “Can’t the 
poor lil chil’ listen to a trew story? Thank the Lawr there 
aren’t many little children in Tobbry cooped up like ’er is, 
as can’t move her lil finger wi’out gettin’ cussed and banged; 
I ain’t got no patience wi’t, and there’s plenty uv other volks 
as I cude mention as ’ave passed a few remarks too — ” 

“Silence!” shouted Aunt Jael, furiously stamping the stone 
floor two-to-the-second with her stick. 

In came my Grandmother, drawn by the tumult. At once 
both Aunt Jael and Mrs. Cheese began defending themselves: 
the first word with neutrals counts for much. To Mrs. Cheese: 
“Miss Vickary first”; to Aunt Jael: “Speak, sister.” 

“I’ve caught her telling the child a long lying rigmarole 
about savages and idolatry — ” 

“’Tis not lies! ’Tis truth!” blazed the other, “and don’t 
yer let the pore chil’ be punished for listenin’. Missis Lee.” 

Grandmother apportioned blame: for me “You knew you 
ought not to have listened”; for Mrs. Cheese “Be more careful 
in what you talk about, and don’t forget your manners with 
Miss Vickary”; for Aunt Jael “There’s not much harm been 
done, Sister ; no need whatever to carry on so.” 

Aunt Jael was infuriated. The balance of Grandmother’s 
judgment was obviously against her; the fact that her younger 
sister was judging at all was against the first principles of the 
household, a slight to her position — and to all those sixty-nine 
years of an eighteen-months’ seniority. 


78 


MARY LEE 


“There!” looked Mrs. Cheese and I, and though neither of us 
smiled nor spoke, Victory sang in our eyes. My triumph was 
short. She struck me with her clenched fist; my shoulder re- 
ceived all she owed to Mrs. Cheese and Grandmother as well. 
So brutal and unexpected was the blow that it stirred me to a 
spontaneous and venomous cry: “Ugh, I hate you.” 

Fear and forethought which shrouded and bowdlerized most 
of my remarks when angry had no time to give me pause. 
“I hate you!” I repeated savagely. 

Silence, Sensation, Crisis. Who would resolve it? How? 

Grandmother spoke first: “Hush, child, hush. Your Aunt is 
angry, but you are beside yourself. Jael, I’m ashamed; to 
strike like that! But ‘hate,’ child: the Devil speaks in you. 
Think, do you mean it?” 

“Not quite, no, not — not so bad as that,” I faltered convinc- 
ingly, not from contrition, but to ward off, if might be, another 
blow, which in the logic of things lay near ahead. 

“H’m. ’Tis as well as not. It all comes to this, young 
minx: You’re bad all through; the Devil’s in ’ee all the time. 
Your Grandmother and I have always forbidden ’ee tales of 
fairies and such like. ’Ee knew, and ’ee listened. Were ’ee 
wrong — or were ’ee not? I correct ’ee, and all I get for years 
of care is that ’ee spit out hate. Are ’ee sinful — or are ’ee not?” 

I looked at Grandmother: I must take care not to alienate 
supporters. I looked at Aunt Jael: that blow must be exor- 
cised. “Yes.” 

She thirsted for super-victory. “Repeat: ‘Yes, Aunt Jael, I 
was sinful and wrong.’ ” 

“Yes, Aunt Jael, I was sinful and wrong.” 

“And so when I reproved ’ee for being wrong and gave ’ee a 
well deserved blow, I was right?” 

No reply. Her brow darkened. Blow nearer again. 

“Come now, quick about it: ’ee were wrong?” 

“Yes, Aunt Jael.” 

“And I was right.” 

No reply. She half raised her stick — not fist this time — 
but noting Grandmother’s eye, restrained herself with an effort. 
Both belligerents played still for neutral sympathy. She must 
be moderate, as Salvation said of her scholastic fees. 

“Now, child, I’ll give ’ee five minutes. If by that time ’ee 


CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, SCARLET WOMAN 79 

haven’t looked me in the face and repeated twice 6 ’Ee were 
right, Aunt Jael, and I’m very sorry,’ then I’ll bang ’ee till ’ee 
won’t be able to sit down. Now then.” 

She leaned against the table, eyeing the clock. Mrs. Cheese 
sat silent, but ready I could see for intervention. That was 
Grandmother’s look too. Both were ready to ward off the 
soon-to-be-uplifted stick. Aunt Jael feared this, and was un- 
easy. She broke the silence after about two minutes. 

“I warn ’ee. For your own good, mark. ’Tis no odds to 
me: I’d as lief thrash you. Don’t ’ee know your Proverbs, 
child: ‘Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy 
rod spare for his crying.’ I’ll not spare for your crying. 
And ’ee’ll be free from me for a spell, for ’ee’ll dwell up in 
the attic for a few days all alone to give ’ee time to think over 
your sins. Now then. What d’ye say to that?” 

“What do I say?” I shouted. “I say this: ‘It is better to 
dwell in a corner of the housetop than with a brawling woman 
in a wide houseV Don’t ’ee know your Proverbs, Aunt Jael?” 

The supreme defiance of my childhood; the aptest quotation 
of my life. Never before nor after was I so great. There was 
no hope now, the beating would equal my deserts, and I had 
doubtless alienated my best ally. Even so, there mingled with 
my fear delight in my retort-perfect. It was worth living to 
have said that; I must be brave and show that it was worth 
dying for. 

For a moment my boldness had staggered her; for a moment 
only. Then she brought down the great stick with a crash on 
my shoulder that sent me reeling against the dresser. Grand- 
mother snatched at the stick; she flung her roughly aside, and 
sent her tottering against the flour-bin with a savage shove. 

“How dare you? How dare you knock my Grandmother 
about? You bad, cruel old woman!” 

“There’s perlice in this town, Miss Vick’ry, you’m 
forgetting.” 

“Jael!” 

For answer to the three of us, she struck me brutally twice, 
once on the leg, and once on my ear, which began to bleed. 
The two others made a joint rush for the stick. 

“Jael, you’re beside yourself.” 

“ ’Old ’ard, ol’ biddy.” 


80 


MARY LEE 


I had one idea: flight. There was a nightmare sort of 
struggle now in progress, swaying first toward one side of the 
kitchen, then toward another: three black-bodiced old ladies 
in a Rugby football scrum, Aunt Jael and Mrs. Cheese, as far 
as one could see, scuffling for the stick, and Grandmother half- 
scuffling for the stick also, scuffling also to prevent the other 
two from scuffling each other to death: at once participant 
and peacemaker, and certainly not blessed. Past this black 
swaying mass I dashed, along the hall, hatless out on to 
the Lawn, and on into the forbidden street outside the Lawn 
gates. 

I ran blindly; where, I did not know. It was a sultry day; 
my aches and bruises began to tell, and I had to slow down 
before my rage was worked away. I was wild and rebellious, 
not only against Aunt Jael, but against God Who allowed her 
to treat me so. I was walking slowly now. I looked about 
me; stared at a new brick building on the other side of the 
road, crossed to read the notice-board outside. “Roman 
Catholic Church!” Aunt Jael had spoken of this; — this mon- 
ster we had weakly allowed to be erected in our midst, this 
Popish temple, this Satan’s Synagogue. 

“Go in!” said Instinct. This was puzzling: the suggestion 
was clearly sinful, yet here it came with the authority of my 
trusted better self. Well, I would commit the sin, the sin 
deadlier than the seven, the sin crying to heaven for vengeance, 
the sin against the Holy Ghost! No modern mind could grasp 
the sense of supreme ultimate wickedness with which my de- 
liberate contact with the Scarlet Woman filled me, for there is 
no live anti-Popery left among us today. As I pushed open 
the red baize door, my heart beat fast. Here indeed was de- 
fiance to Aunt Jael and to God Who permitted her. I was 
making a personal call on the Devil in his own private resi- 
dence. I should have been much less surprised than fright- 
ened to find him inside the chapel, seated on a throne of fire; 
tail, hoofs and all. What should I find? I trembled with 
emotion. 

My first impressions were of the darkness and the smell. 
This curious odour was doubtless the “insects” against which 
Miss Salvation thundered; that burnt-offering which cunningly 
combined cruelty with idolatry. It was an interesting smell; 


CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, SCARLET WOMAN 81 

I thought of the paint-and-Bibles odour of our Room. Much 
of the character of churches, as of books, is discovered in 
their smell: it is by my nose rather than my mind that I can 
best recall the rich doctrinal differences between Calvinistic 
Methodists, and (say) Particular Baptists. You may smell 
out a Tipper — or a Bunker — or a Believer in the Divine Rev- 
elation of Joanna Southcote — with blindfold eyes; and the 
odour of an English Roman Catholic Church is, I think, the 
most distinctive of them all. So too its darkness. How unlike 
the bare lightness of the Room. This Papistry reminded me 
of Aunt Jael’s front parlour with its perpetual yellow dark- 
ness, its little heathen images and its great wooden god. 
Everywhere there were images and idols, though I was dis- 
appointed — and surprised — not to see more sensational sym- 
bols of evil. I dared not begin to think so, though I felt al- 
ready that this mysterious place gave (somehow) pleasure. 

“Habitation of devils and cage of every unclean and hateful 
bird”: our phrases did not fit here, — but perhaps I should soon 
behold a Sign. A young man came in and knelt before one of 
the idols: a mother and baby-boy, the Mary Mother and the 
Son of God. I watched him on his knees before the graven 
image, Man Vriday on his knees before God Benamuckee. I 
had a wild notion of crying aloud; I would then and there 
testify to the true God. But I could not — something held me 
back — the incense, the holiness, the young man’s face, pale 
and kind and pure. ... I looked away. In the side aisle 
were two or three old women in prayer. How like our old- 
lady Saints were these Papist women! However different 
their souls, how alike their clothes and faces! The one nearest 
me reminded me at once of my Grandmother. Kneeling with 
her eyes closed and her lips moving in prayer, she looked 
strangely like the dear devout face I watched each night at bed- 
side prayers. Said Reason : this is an old Papist sinner, a lost 
soul, an eldest beautiful daughter of Antichrist, who hath 
glorified herself and lived deliciously, whose sins have reached 
unto heaven, whose iniquities God hath remembered. Said 
Instinct, which came from the Lord: “She is good.” (Perhaps 
she was one of those two or three Papists who were going to 
heaven, as Grandmother said, despite all.) The kind old face, 
rapt, adoring, the lips praying as my Grandmother prayed; 


82 


MARY LEE 


the pale clean sorrowful young man too; above all, the rich 
sacramental stillness — these things of course were wrong. In 
the swifter more intuitive way I knew that they were right, and 
that I was wrong. I was bafflled; and frightened. These im- 
pressions come back to me dimmed maybe, or rather, over- 
clarified by the notions of later years-; but however vaguely 
and childishly, they are what I surely felt. I had come into 
this place to commit sin: I knew now that I was committing 
sin by having come here in such a spirit. I had known it was 
sacrilege to hold communion with the evil thing; now the sac- 
rilege seemed to be in the mood in which I had come 
here. For Papist temple or no, God was somewhere here. 
The dark incensed holiness of this unholy place was sapping 
my faith and will. I must fly. 

And my revenge? I had forgotten that. I slunk out feebly, 
fleeing from the church and fleeing too from new thoughts I 
dare not think. I ran to stop myself thinking. 

There was no alternative but home. They mu9t be wonder- 
ing where I was, searching perhaps. They would be anxious; 
Aunt Jael’s conscience, I hoped, would be smiting her. It was 
already near dusk when I slipped through the Lawn gates. 
When I reached the door my fear grew again; but I was too 
tired to wander further. Beatings or no beatings, I would go 
into Aunt Jael’s own front room, curl myself up in the arm- 
chair; the place was so strictly forbidden that she would never 
dream of searching for me there. The key, as always, stood in 
the door; mean and purposeful temptation. It was not far 
from supper-time, and with the blind drawn the room was 
pretty well dark. I lay back in the armchair and looked 
around me at the yellow darkness, at the great oak cupboard, 
the blanched plants in their row of saucers on the floor, 
the walls covered with spears and clubs, the mantelpiece lit- 
tered with gods. There straight ahead, high on his walnut 
whatnot, the great idol blinked down at me. 

Here, here was my revenge! The notion stormed me. Dare 
I? Dare I go down on my knees and worship the graven 
image? ’Twas a fine way of getting even : to kneel on the floor 
of her sacred room, and there perform that idolatry which was 
for her the nameless sin, through even talking of which today’s 
trouble had begun. It would be getting even with God too. 


CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, SCARLET WOMAN 83 

If He allowed cruelty and injustice to go on, if He let me be 
treated as I was, if He failed to deal fairly and faithfully be- 
tween Aunt Jael and me, if He came short in His duty to Him- 
self and myself; then in my turn I would fail in my duty to 
Him, I woud break His commandments. From the second the 
notion came, I knew I should obey; though it puzzled me to 
hear what seemed to be the Tempter’s voice speaking for 
the second time today with the voice of God. To give the 
Right every chance, and as a sop to fear, I would count a 
slow and impartial thirty-seven. If at the end of my count 
the desire to sin was still there, I should have no choice but 
to obey: the deed must have been predestined, foreordained. 
Slowly I counted, trying desperately not to influence the deci- 
sion, and keeping an even balance between wickedness and 
fear: . . . thirty-five . . . thirty-six . . . thirty-seven. Yes. 
The idol still leered invitation; worship him I must. Yet 
fear numbed me as I sank on my knees; so I made this piti- 
ful pretence, that I was only pretending to do it, not really 
performing idolatry, but just making believe that I was. (In 
a way this was true.) 

Aloud I piped feebly in faint shameful voice: “O-o-o-o 
Benamuckee,” but dare not face the idol yet. In my heart 
I screamed, “0 God, God, I’m not doing this really. Strike 
me not dead, show no vengeance, spare me, 0 Lord. ’Tis all 
make-believe, that I’m worshiping this idol. Thou knowest 
it. Spare me, spare me!” Every second I expected some 
dread sign, waited God’s stroke. Surely it must come. Here 
was I — a Christian child, Saint of Saints, dedicated to preach 
the gospel to the heathen, who in their blindness bowed 
down to wood and stone — doing the self-same thing, and with 
no blindness for an excuse. Jehovah would bare His terrible 
right arm in one swift gesture of supreme revenge — lightning, 
thunder-bolt, death — only let the stroke come quickly! I 
waited through a moment of abject fear. Nothing happened; 
nothing. Was God — ? I dare not ask myself the question 
I dared not formulate. 

The first moment passed. I grew less fearful. I grew bold. 
I felt confident in the instinct that had prompted me, mor- 
bidly delighted with the quality of my sin, mighty in its 
importance and in my own. I felt I was the central spot in 


84 


MARY LEE 


the universe: all the worlds were standing still to gaze upon 
my wickedness. God did nothing. He gave no sign. I took 
courage; I abandoned all pretence that I was pretending, 
and flung myself prostrate on the carpet. 

“O-o-o-o-Benamuckee! O-o-o-o-Benamuckee!” with all the 
fervour of true prayer. 

Still no sign. By now I was not afraid, but rather disap- 
pointed. Why had the Omniscient and Omnipotent left me 
unpunished, unreproved, unscathed? Swiftly the answer 
rushed to my brain — I counted a desperate thirty-seven, but 
the notion stuck — He gave no heed because He so utterly 
despised me. He saw nothing in me but a miserable play- 
acting little worm, too mean even for punishment. It was true, 
and in the same moment I despised myself. “O-o-o-o” 
died lamely on my lips. As I got up from my knees I dared 
not look around me for fear some one was watching my folly 
and shame. Had anybody seen? And what harm had I done to 
Aunt Jael, the source of all my misery, the real author of 
all my folly? None. First by going into a house of idolatry, 
and now by performing it myself, I was wreaking no hurt on 
her, while imperilling my own eternal soul. I was a fool. 

Then came the day’s third notion. Cupboard, cupboard! 
— rifle it! Open, look, steal! This massive piece of oak 
excelled the physic cupboard in mystery, while equalling it 
in Aunt Jael’s affections. Its contents were largely unknown: 
I knew it housed a jar of ginger, and in benignant mood 
Aunt Jael would make it yield a box of Smyrna figs, from 
which she doled me one or two for senna’s sake — as dainty 
supplement or shy substitute. Like the door of the room it- 
self, the door of the rich cupboard stood always key in lock. 
Once before I had reached this point of handling the key; 
today, the day of many sins, I took the one step further, and 
opened to my gaze a new world of jars, pots, boxes and bags. 
I opened my campaign on a jar of French plums, the jar 
massive stone and broad-necked, the plums large black and 
luscious. I had eaten perhaps my sixth (one of my unlucky 
numbers), when — a sound — and I half dropped the jar in 
fright. The door, there was a noise at the door; the handle 
turned, it was opening. An opening door is the thief’s 
nightmare; I dared not get up from my knees. The noise 


CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, SCARLET WOMAN 85 

ceased; I peered through the darkness. Then the atoms of 
seen atmosphere that sometimes fill a half-darkened room 
played me a cruel trick. They shaped into a great leering 
face — half Aunt Jael, half Benamuckee; — it peered round 
the door, it mocked, it sneered. I was petrified with fear, 
and for something to hold clutched fiercely at the stone jar. 
Was the face real? Look, it was fading away. Then, with- 
out any manner of doubt, the door softly shut. So the 
face was real, and I knew its owner. 

What new tortures would she find to meet the score I was 
running up? Why had she withdrawn? Ah, she had gone 
for the ship’s rope, was coming back to give me the last 
flogging of all, the one that would kill me. A few minutes 
passed. As in the Papist chapel, and again during my idol- 
worship, I waited for a great something to happen. Nothing 
happened. I attended a sign. No sign came. 

I must venture forth; sooner or later I had to face the 
music. I had no stomach left for plums. I put the jar 
back, locked the cupboard door, and stole softly out into 
the hall. Far away along the passage I could see Mrs. 
Chese bustling about in the kitchen; it must be supper-time. 
She was still in the house therefore; she had ignored her 
notice and survived the melee in which I had seen her last. 
I turned the key softly behind me, then stole to the house 
front-door, which I noisily opened and shut, to pretend I had 
just come in. 

I walked straight into the dining-room. 

Aunt Jael smiled. I had foreseen many things, but not this. 
She said nothing. This proved that the face at the door 
was hers. A grim smile. 

“At last!” said my Grandmother. “It was wrong to run 
away and scare us like this. I’ll talk to you afterwards up- 
stairs. Have your supper now, as you’ve had no tea. Then 
to bed.” 

I ate. Aunt Jael sat and smiled. A grim smile. 

Upstairs in my bedroom Grandmother asked me where I 
had been. “I walked about the town” satisfied her. She 
rebuked my initial sin in encouraging Mrs. Cheese, my second 
in insulting Aunt Jael, my third in running away; she anointed 
my sores, first on the ear, second on the calf, third on the 


86 MARY LEE 

shoulder where the first ruffianly stroke had fallen; she prayed 
with me, and said good-night. 

Alone in bed I went over the day’s events: from porridge 
pan to plums, from lumps to Aunt Jael’s smile. Suddenly, 
causelessly in the way one finds in a dream lost objects 
whose hiding place is long forgotten — I saw the stone cover 
of the plum jar lying in the middle of the front-room carpet. 
Remembrance followed vision, and I knew I had hastily put 
the jar away without it. At all events the cover must be 
restored; if by any wild chance the face at the door had 
not been Aunt Jael’s this tell-tale object would anyhow give 
me away if she should find it; if the face were hers the 
cover would be fine “evidence.” 

I got up. I always lay awake till after midnight; Aunt 
Jael and Grandmother were long ago in bed. The day’s 
horrible excitements had made me more cowardly than usual. 
The darkness frightened me, the creaking stairs frightened 
me, my conscience frightened me. Shapes loomed every- 
where. The pillar at the foot of the banisters towered 
down on me like some avenging ghost. At last I reached 
the front-room door; I turned the key slowly and carefully; 
it clanged unpiteously in the silence. I peeped in. The 
moonlight piercing through the drawn blind lit up ghoulishly 
the god’s evil face. I stared a moment; his features moved; 
and I fled in frantic terror. 

Though the object I sought was but a couple of yards 
away, I could not for all the world have dared a single step 
nearer. I shut the door and, praying fervently ail the way, 
crept up to bed again. I would go and pick up the cover of the 
jar first thing in the morning; Aunt Jael never went in till 
after breakfast; the daylight I could dare. 


CHAPTER VII: THE END OF THE WORLD 


All night I did not sleep. Conscience busy with the day 
past and fear anxious for the day ahead gave me quite enough 
to think about, and I was feverish and overwrought. As soon 
after daylight as I dared I set forth downstairs. It was early 
enough for me to retrieve the tell-tale object before Aunt Jael 
was astir and light enough for me to brave Lord Benamuckee. 
At the foot of the stairs I met Aunt Jael, fully dressed, nearly 
two hours before ordinary time; smiling. 

“Good morning, child. You’re up betimes.” 

I did not dare a tu quoque, but uttered a feeble tale about 
helping Mrs. Cheese to clean the hoots, Friday being her 
busiest day. 

Aunt Jael, by a singular coincidence, had risen in the same 
helping spirit, and the two of us burst upon the astonished 
Mrs. Cheese in the midst of her first matutinal movements. 
Though I was by now quite certain that the face at the door 
had been Aunt Jael’s, this did not prevent my wishing to 
restore the jar-cover to its place. It was preparing for the 
best, so to speak, on the faint off-chance that I was deluded. 
Meanwhile her smile prepared me for the worst. It was 
more complex than a blow, for it portended blows to come 
and added to their evil charm by heralding them afar off. 
Aune Jael’s floggings had at least this merit, that as a rule 
they came suddenly; the stick was across my back before 
I knew where I was. 

I walked out of the kitchen, straight through to the front 
room door. Before touching the handle, I took a glance 
down the length of the hall. Yes, there she stood at the 
kitchen door, watching me like a hawk. At breakfast, hope 
pointed out one more chance. I would gobble down my food, 
and essay a dash for my objective just as I was leaving for 
school. I ate as fast as I could; she at once ate faster. I got 
up, she got up too. There was no chance, and she even saw 
me to the house-door as I set out for school. In the game 

87 


88 


MARY LEE 


we were playing, no word was spoken. Her weapon waa 
her smile, which was the proof too that she was winning. 

On my way to school, as I thought now of this latest 
menace, now of yesterday’s deeds, I admitted that here at 
last was a case when I deserved punishment. “I hate you” — 
entering a House of Sin, and approving it almost — breach of 
the third commandment — common theft — a white lie to Grand- 
mother as to where I had been — what an awful record 
for one day! Truly I was a queen of sinners. Perhaps 
God saw fit to humble me in the exaltation of my sin by 
scorning direct vengeance Himself (three times I had waited 
for the sign), and had chosen as the vehicle of His vengeance 
Aunt Jael, my every-day inglamorous tyrant. In any case 
vengeance was certain; the sultry thunder- weather of the new 
day seemed to announce it. 

Soon after I got to school, it began to grow dark, then 
very dark. It was one of those rare occasions when the pitch- 
black of utter darkness falls in the day-time; I only remem- 
ber one other in nearly fifty years. Miss Glory wondered; 
Miss Salvation exclaimed; we children cowered. I alone 
had an inkling of what the portent really betokened. It was 
the Sign. Now that I felt certain once again that the moment 
of my doom was at hand, all the exquisite extreme fear of 
yesterday came back. 

It was swiftly too dark to read. Panic set in. All the 
children, from both classes, clustered round Glory. She, not 
Salvation, was the refuge and strength which instinct pointed 
out on this Last Day. The situation was worthy of her 
prophet’s soul: to her was assigned the awful honour of usher- 
ing in Eternity, and announcing the sure signs of the begin- 
ning of the end. She stood up, gaunt, prophetic, towering 
far above the children who clustered round her, waved one 
hand towards the heavens, and chanted forth: 

“The End, little children, is here! Fear not! Repent! 
‘And the fourth angel sounded and the third part o’ the sun 
was smitten, and the third part o’ the moon and the third 
part o’ the stars; so as the third part o’ them was darkened, 
and the day shone not for a third part uv it, and the night 
likewise.’ The End is here! The bottomless pit is opened, 
then cometh forth smoke out o’ the pit, and the sun and the 


89 


THE END OF THE WORLD 

air are darkened. Out o’ the smoke come great locusts 
upon the earth, great locusts — ” Some of the children 
shrieked. 

Now at one stride came utter darkness. Salvation fell on 
her knees in a corner apart, yelling and howling to the Lord 
to save her. “0 Lord, Lord, remember us as is chosen, 
remember, Lord. Smite the ungodly, Lord, smite ’em all, but 
spare the righteous, spare the righteous! Strike the goats 
with thy angur, but zave the pore sheep; smite the zinners, 
but zave Thy own Zaints! Oh, aw, ow! Zave, Lord, zave!” 

While this pitiable object yelled away, and the children 
cried, Miss Glory’s solemn voice chanted on, awaiting God’s 
stroke. I the Papist, the idolater, the liar, the thief — this 
visitation was for me. And if it was the end of the whole 
world too, as I believed, I was the cause, and I should be 
the first victim. 

“Plagues, locusts, scorpions, the pit, the great tribulation! 
Life is death, me children: ’tis one long prercession o death 
beds. Listen, hearken. First the darkness, now ’tis the 
thunders and lightin’s that is at hand. Watch, oh, my chil- 
dren, watch; pray and fear not. ’Tis the end o’ the Worrld, 
I tell ’ee, the end o’ the Worrld.” And all the children 
clutched at her in a frightened desperate ring, so that they 
should all go to heaven or hell together. I could just dis- 
tinguish the group a few feet away; it looked in the darkness 
like a swarm of giant insects. Miss Salvation was pleading 
and howling away for a heaven to herself, and hell for all 
folk else. Still I waited; the slowness of God’s stroke was 
half its terror. It was too hard to bear. 

Then, far more suddenly than it came, the darkness lifted. 
With returning light came confidence. I breathed freely. 
Once again respite. Fear, prime instigator of goodness, lost 
his hold as the shadows faded. I began to expect escape; 
to think, after so many favours, that I was privileged, and 
could take the risk of wrongdoing. I was a chartered liber- 
tine. 

When I got back to Bear Lawn before dinner, no sign 
of Aunt Jael. There was still a chance then to put things 
right if it was not too late. I stole into the front room. 
There, in the middle of the floor, just as I had seemed to see 


90 


MARY LEE 


it in bed, lay the stone jar-cover. Good fortune once again. 
After all Aunt Jael could know nothing. Those smiles were 
innocent; their menace must have been born of my disordered 
mind. Anyway, here was yet another stroke of luck. But, 
alas, these perpetual escapes emboldened me. Fear is the 
guardian of virtue, safety the guide to sin. God’s repeated 
forgivenesses for my sins inspired in me security rather than 
jgTatitude: a feeling that I could sin safely. 

So why not another French plum? Only just one, — or two. 
Before fixing the cover on the jar, it was natural enough just 
to taste. I knelt down to open the cupboard. I tilted the 
heavy jar to look down into it and make my choice. In a sec- 
ond I dropped it with a wild frenzied shriek, wrung from the 
depths of my heart. Staring at me from inside the jar, 
painted there in great letters of shining fire, lay the Sign: 

THOU GOD SEEST ME. 

The King of Terrors had got hold of me, and I shrieked and 
shrieked again. I writhed on the floor like a wild thing, 
clasping now my side, now my knees and again my forehead 
in all the pitiful gestures of terror. I cut my hand against the 
broken fragments of the jar that lay scattered on the floor. I 
licked at the blood. Now the air seemed filled with those aw- 
ful letters, in blood-red capitals everywhere. I shut my eyes: 
against the blackness the letters stood forth more bright and 
terrible than ever: THOU GOD SEEST ME. He saw, the 
Almighty saw. God had given me rope and I had hanged my- 
self. It had needed this miracle to bring me to a sense of my 
sins: this Sign whereby the Lord God wrote with His own fin- 
ger in letters of fire in the plum-jar; the earthen vessel of my 
sin. This was but the beginning of terrors. “Tis the End o’ 
the World, I tell ’ee, the End o’ the World,” rang my brain. I 
waited the next sign: a stealthy sound — the door, the door! — 
then again that face, leering, mocking, horrible. It was Aunt 
Jael — no, it was Benamuckee — it changed again, it was the 
Devil himself! I fainted away. 

In the “mental illness” that followed I came near to losing 
my life and nearer still to losing my reason. For many days 
I was unconscious, and then for long weeks I lay in bed under 
my Grandmother’s loving care. In my delirium I must have 


THE END OF THE WORLD 91 

told her everything. Sometimes I can recall that fevered 
time; it comes back to me in the swift evanescent way that one 
remembers a dream long afterwards, and it is one long hid- 
eous nightmare. I live again those dark delirious days when 
I knew myself for a lost soul flying in terror from God, the 
Devil, the Pope, Aunt Jael, Benamuckee and Eternity, who 
menaced me in turn with their various and particular terrors, 
in all the formless frightfulness of dreams. The pursuit was 
everlasting. An evil black shadow prowled close at my heels 
with pitiless, unbroken stride. The face, which kept forcing 
me against my will to turn round to look at it as I ran, changed 
from time to time. First I thought my pursuer was Aunt Jael, 
brandishing a huge stick studded with thorns and spikes of in- 
human size. As I looked, hate of the coarse old face rose 
within me: then the face changed, I thought, into God’s; stern, 
just and terrible, seeking me out to stifle the wicked hate in 
my heart. Now again it was the Pope, horned and horrible, 
seeking to avenge my sacrilege in his temple, and now 
Benamuckee, hastening to devour me for having repented of 
my idolatry and deserted his shrine. I ran, it seemed, for 
ever. I had no strength left, and fear alone worked my weary 
limbs. Now the face was formless: a black shapeless mass 
without limbs or features was pursuing me. He was the 
grimmest of them all, and followed for ever and ever. I knew 
the formless face; it was the last worst terror, Eternity Him- 
self! Sometimes, as my Grandmother told me long after- 
wards, I shrieked in my delirium till my voice failed me and I 
could shriek no more. 

Perhaps it was at such moments that the dream changed. 
I thought that I was God, with all the labour and responsibility 
of creation upon my soul. Every clod of earth that went to 
* make the world I had to go and fetch from some far-away cor- 
ner in utmost Space; I staggered with them, in it seemed a 
million journeys, to the central place where with infinite la- 
bour I had to piece them all together one by one. When I 
came to making the first man, my conscience — God’s con- 
science — smote me: “Think and ponder well: if you fashion 
but one man, it is you who must bear the guilt for all the aw- 
ful sorrows and wretchedness of the millions of men who will 
come after, it is you who will be responsible for all the agony 


92 


MARY LEE 


of eternal life you are conferring upon a new race.” I shut 
my ears to the voice (Who is God’s conscience? — the Devil?), 
hardened my heart, and created mankind. Then as I beheld 
his fall, and all the unhurrying centuries of woe and pain 
and cruelty and sorrow that followed, and knew that every one 
of those creatures I had called forth was damned into everlast- 
ingness without hope of happiness or death; suddenly on me 
too, on me the Lord God, there fell the terror of the Ever- 
lasting. All the fear I knew so well as Mary Lee was now 
a hundred times intensified when I w T as God. I too, 
the Almighty, was a victim on the wheel of Space and Time; 
and as my brain pictured the awful horrible loneliness that 
would face me for ever watching the birth and death of 
all the stars and half-a-million worlds, and knowing there 
was no escape, I made a wild despairing attempt to fling 
myself headlong over the edge of Space and commit soul- 
murder if I could. I flung myself over what seemed to be 
the margin of the universe; I was falling, falling — then 
arms restored me; — and Grandmother saved me just in time, 
and put poor delirious brain-sick little God back into bed. 

I was in bed for many weeks; it was three or four months 
before I went back to school. The permanent effect of my 
illness was an increased nervousness I have never shaken off. 
To this day, whenever a door opens suddenly without warn- 
ing, my heart stands still, and try as I may not to see it, the 
vision of a cruel mocking face comes back. The most 
immediate effect was that I became a “better” child. My 
Grandmother’s daily gentleness and sacrifice during those 
long long days, made me resolve to be more like her; and 
I prayed God fervently to make me so. I saw too, for all 
Aunt Jael’s provocations and harsh treatment, that I had 
been wrong and wicked. I numbered my sins one by one 
and repented of each and all. A miracle had been wrought 
to save me: the finger of the Almighty had sketched in 
letters of flame the reminder that HE SAW ME. He had 
intervened miraculously and directly, to secure my spiritual 
state. I determined to be worthy of this signal proof of 
God’s special favour. By a sacrifice not easy to exaggerate 
I managed to see that Aunt Jael might have been God’s 
“instrument” throughout: perhaps the idea was more pos- 


THE END OF THE WORLD 93 

sible since now, during my recovery, she treated me far 
better than at any time before: kept a sharp hold on her 
tongue, indulged in no recriminations or abuse, and bought 
me a bottle of barley-sugar. I saw nothing more of that 
curious mocking smile that had helped to haunt me into 
delirium. Once or twice I thought she had a guilty look, 
especially once when Grandmother made some reference to the 
plum-jar. Was it possible? Never. For if so, how? No; 
it was the Lord’s doing. 

Mrs. Cheese had left. I gathered from Grandmother that 
there had been a stormy scene, Mrs. Cheese accusing Aunt 
Jael of directly and deliberately causing my illness, and Aunt 
Jael ordering Mrs. Cheese out of the house then and there. 
She refused to go till she had helped my Grandmother to 
see me through the worst days. 

In the stead of Mrs. Cheese arose a dim unapostolic 
succession of fickle and fleeting bondswomen. Most of them 
were Saints. All of them quarrelled with Aunt Jael. Their 
average sojourn with us was perhaps ten months, which in 
those stable and old-fashioned days would equal (say) two 
weeks in this era of quick-change kitchen-maids and kalei- 
doscopic cooks. 

There was Prudence, rightly so-called, for although she 
skimmed each morning the milk the dairyman had left over- 
night, she cautiously concealed her jugful of cream in the 
remotest corner of the least-used scullery cupboard. Aunt 
Jael, however, was on the watch. She thought the milk 
woefully thin, and Prudence’s explanations still thinner. 
Then one morning she found the prudent one busy at early 
dawn, spoon in hand, her little jug half-full; caught in the 
very act. 

There were Charlotte, Annie, Miriam, Ethel, May, Jane, 
Sarah, Bessie, Ann, Mary, the Elizas (two), Kate, Keturah, 
Deborah, Selina, and Sukie: I am not sure of their strict 
order of precedence. Nor do I remember their life with 
us half so well as the manner of their leaving it. The 
climax came variously. Charlotte told me what I now know 
to have been dirty stories. Annie told Aunt Jael herself a 
very dirty story indeed — precisely what she thought of her 
(Aunt Jael) ; Miriam spat in her (Aunt Jael’s) porridge, 


94 


MARY LEE 


Kate when attacked with a shovel hit back with a floury 
rolling-pin, Bessie stole a shilling, Ann (Anglican) giggled 
during prayers, Jane — or may be this was Sarah — brought 
unsaved “followers” into the house, Selina did no work; one 
of the Elizas swore and the other was a Baptist. May and 
Keturah were fetched away by indignant parents. Deborah 
disappeared. One only died a natural death — Mary, my 
namesake, who left us to get married. 


CHAPTER VIII: SATAN COMES TO TAWBOROUGH 


“Yes,” said Miss Glory shaking her head gravely one Tues- 
day afternoon. “I fear ’tis true. Satan hisself is coming to 
this town.” 

“Oh,” said Aunt Jael, “I should have thought he was here 
already.” 

“The ole Devil hisself,” continued Glory, staring far into 
space and ignoring Aunt Jael. 

“Now what do you think you mean?” snapped my Great- 
Aunt. 

“She means the ole Devil hisself, which is what she said,” 
interposed Salvation, hoping to raise ill feeling. 

“Peace, sister! All I means is this ’ere. God A’mighty 
meant us to travel on our two legs or by the four legs of 
four-footed beasts. ’Tis only the Devil as can want to go 
any other way. We know ’ausses, an’ donkeys, and mules 
too for the matter o’ that, but when it comes to carriages 
and truck loads o’ folk being pulled along as quick as a flash 
of lightning by an ole artifishul animal belchin’ up steam 
and fire, like the n’orrible pit it is, ’tis some’at a thought too 
queer for an ole Christian woman like myself and for God 
A’mighty too I should think. No wonder there are orwis 
actsodents — act o’ God, I calls ’un. I’ve heard tell of these 
’ere railway trains in vorrin parts, but I never did think we 
should see ’un in North Devun. But ’tis true I fear; Sal- 
vation went across the bridge to see with ’er own two eyes, 
and saw a pair o’ lines as the wicked thing runs along on, 
and bills and notices all braggin’ about it. There didn’t 
used to be no sich things, and there didn’t ought to be now; 
’tis all the Devil’s works and there’ll be a judgment on them 
as ’elps ’em, a swift an’ n’orrible judgment, you mark my 
words.” 

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried my Aunt. “ ’Ee may both like 
to know that I sold that field o’ mine, down beyond the 
meadow, to this railway company. There! Got a middling 

95 


96 


MARY LEE 


good price for it too, as all the Meeting will soon learn 
from yer two wagging tongues. Judgment indeed! Poor 
ignorant old fool. Tis a sensible invention, and the Lord 
permits it. Be you daft? ’Ee just show me a scripture that’s 
against railway trains!” 

“An’ ’ee just show me one that’s for ’un!” cried Salvation. 

“I’m sorry, Jael,” said Glory, ignoring her sister as always, 
“but I assure ’ee I didn’t know when I spake they solemn 
words. ’Tis a very seldom thing for me to speak out, but 
I feels deep. Even if ’tissen the spirit of Satan that’s mov- 
ing in these ’ere railway trains, what’s the good of ’un any- 
way? Will the worrld be any happier, will there be a single 
sinner the more as repenteth? Will there be less poor folk 
in the worrld and less souls going to ’Ell? You wake up in 
a hundred years and see if these ’ere railway trains ’ave 
brought the kingdom ’o God on earth! There’s no two ways 
about it, the worrld is getting wickeder, and these new inven- 
shuns a sign. Things bain’t what they used to be, and 
they’m gettin’ worse.” 

“That field, Sister Jael,” added Salvation, with gleaming 
teeth, “that field you sold was a field of blood. Alcedama! 
There’ll be a judgment, a n’orrible judgment, you mark my 
words.” 

A few weeks later Aunt Jael heaped coals of fire by 
asking the Sisters to accompany us to the official ceremony 
of the Devil’s arrival in Tawborough. All, I suppose, who 
had sold land to the Company were invited to this function. 
Aunt Jael had a white ticket giving right of admission to 
the uncovered platform at which the Devil would draw up — 
“the Company’s railway station” as the ticket grandly called 
it. It was a preliminary trip from Crediton to Tawborough, 
before the general opening for traffic: a kind of dress re- 
hearsal. 

The day, July 12th, 1854, stands clear in my memory. It 
was the chief purely secular event of my childhood, the only 
time before I was a grown woman that I went to any assem- 
bling together of people other than the Lord’s. I marvelled to 
see how numerous they were, and I remember the dim suspicion 


SATAN COMES TO TAWBOROUGH 97 

that haunted me throughout the day, and never completely 
left me afterwards, that perhaps, despite Brother Brawn, 
not quite all of them were being ’urld to ’Ell. They did not 
seem aware of it, and the moments when I did not doubt 
their fate were filled with pity. 

The day was to be treated as a holiday. Glory was per- 
suaded by Aunt Jael to announce that there would be no 
school. I was up betimes, wakened by the bells of the parish 
church, which rang a merry peal, and by the firing of guns. 
It was one of those fresh glorious summer mornings which 
promise delight, and do not leave the memory. Soon after 
breakfast the Clinkers arrived in a carriage. Glory with 
brand new bacon-rind strings to her bonnet, Salvation 
ominously cheerful, confident of some awful disaster. Grand- 
mother, Aunt Jael and I were ready waiting, and the five 
of us drove to the scene of action. I felt elated and impor- 
tant, perched up on the box, as we drove slowly along streets 
thronged with crowds in their Sunday best. Every one ap- 
peared in high spirits; I conjectured that those who shared 
Miss Glory’s gloomy views must all have stayed at home. 
The crowds became denser as we approached the railway 
station, a kind of long wooden platform with a high covering. 
It looked like a very odd top-heavy sort of shed. A few feet 
below the platform and close beside it ran two parallel metal 
lines on which the Thing would arrive. A high triumphal 
arch covered with green-stuff and laurel leaves and bedecked 
with flags, the first I had ever seen, English, French and 
Turkish (“Our Allies”: There was a war, said some one), 
spanned the line. The platform was crowded with people, 
and very gay and worldly they looked. Our little company 
of Saints tried to cling together, and I held tight to my 
Grandmother’s hand, but the crowd was too close all round 
for u* to look as separate as we tried to feel. Quite near 
was a body of gentlemen dressed in ermine and rich sur- 
prising costumes and furs and wigs and cocked hats, and 
holding mysterious gold and silver weapons. Some, said 
my Grandmother, were the Mayor and Corporation, others 
were Oddfellows and Freemasons. I had not the least idea 
what these words might mean, and was too busy staring to 
ask which were which. My heart was filled with envy of 


98 


MARY LEE 


those portly gentlemen and their gorgeous robes; a hanker- 
ing envy as real as any sentiment I have ever felt. 

As the time of arrival drew near the excitement and jos- 
tling on the platform increased. One lady fainted; “A jidg- 
ment,” commented Miss Salvation. 

I overheard some saying the train would never arrive, 
others that It would be hours or even days late; others again 
that It would arrive to time and confound all doubters. 
Excitement rose to a pitch of frenzy when two galloping 
horsemen drew up at the platform and announced that within 
five minutes It would be here. Only half of It however would 
arrive, as the back portion had somehow got detached and left 
behind at Umberleigh: “The Devil losing his tail,” said Miss 
Salvation. When about two minutes later a tall gentleman near 
us shouted excitedly that he sighted It afar off, there was such 
a tiptoeing and straining and squashing and peering that I 
could have cried with vexation at being so small. My Grand- 
mother lifted me for a moment, and I had a perfect view 
of the monstrous beast as it drew near. The first carriage 
was belching fire and smoke from a funnel — just as Glory 
had said — and the carriages behind it, brown scaly looking 
things, were like the links in a hell-dragon’s tail. The fear 
seized me for a swift moment that perhaps after all she was 
right. Then the people broke into deafening cheers and 
hurrahs, and waved handkerchiefs and funny little flags. Aunt 
Jael and Grandmother stood impassive, but excited a little in 
spite of themselves. Glory and Salvation set their mouths, 
and determined to hold out. As the great engine puffed 
past us I was trembling with excitement. It was the purest 
magic. 

When the Thing stopped we were about in the middle of 
its length, opposite the second carriage, or link of the tail. 
We were all pressed back to make room for the great people 
who were emerging. The majority were gentlemen, a few 
grandly and mysteriously dressed like ours, more Corpora- 
tions and Oddfellows and Freemasons I supposed, but most 
of them, including some very angry-looking gentlemen, whis- 
pered to be His Worship the Mayor of Exeter and the Aider- 
men of that ancient city, in plain clothes. Alas, all their 


SATAN COMES TO TAWBOROUGH 99 

toggery had been left behind in the back half of the train 
which had been shed at Umberleigh. 

A very stylish gentleman dressed in black came forward 
in front of everybody else: Chairman of the Company, I heard 
whispered — whatever that might mean. He shook hands with 
several of our dressed-up gentlemen, and then one of the 
latter, a fat man with a wig and white curls, read to the 
stylish gentleman from a long roll of paper a very long 
and very dry speech congratulating him on bringing the 
railway train to Tawborough and describing his person in 
very flattering terms. The stylish gentleman made a speech 
(without roll of paper) in response; it was much shorter, 
but about as dry. 

Then some of the dressed-up members of our side came 
forward in a body and poured out com and oil and wine, 
very solemnly. When the wine had been spilled, a solemn 
man dressed like a high priest (the Provincial Grand Chap- 
lain of the Order of Freemasons, I discover forty years later 
from the files of a local paper) lifted up his hands and prayed 
over the Oblation. So people who were not Saints prayed! 

The next thing I remember was our dressed-up people and 
the visitors moving off the platform to form themselves into 
a procession to march round the town, and all the rest of 
us repairing to witness it. In the stampede that ensued Aunt 
Jael tripped over a beam that was lying on the platform, and 
went flying. 

“A jidgment,” began Salvation, triumphant at last; when 
she tripped on the beam and went flying too — which was 
a “jidgment.” 

We were only just in time to get a good view of the pro- 
cession, as it took Aunt Jael and Miss Salvation some time 
to limp along. All the Mayors and Oddfellows and Cor- 
porations and Freemasons were there, carrying symbols and 
rods and devices; there were soldiers. Mounted Rifles and 
officers gay with swords; shipwrights in white trousers, and 
clergymen in black; uninteresting looking people in ordinary 
clothes who had no more right to be there, I thought, than 
I had; and at least four bands of music. The glamour of 
martial music and brilliant costumes raised me to a pitch 


100 


MARY LEE 


of ecstasy and envy; from that moment blare and pomp 
filled a great place in my hankerings and hopes. 

After the procession we took a walk round the streets, 
which were crowded with people from all North Devon. 
There were flags at nearly every window. A great trium- 
phal arch was erected in the middle of the bridge inscribed 
“Success to the North Devon Railway.” The High Street was 
one series of festoons, from upper storey windows of one 
side to upper storey windows of the other. One said “God 
Save the Queen,” another “Prosperity to our Town,” and 
another which puzzled me a good deal, hanging from the 
windows of what I now know to have been the local news- 
paper office, declared in huge red bunting capitals 

THE PRESS, 

THE RAILROAD OF CIVILIZATION. 

We got home to dinner tired and excited. Glory and 
Salvation left to attend a Tea in the North Walk given by 
the tradespeople to six hundred poor people, amongst whom 
the Clinkers had hastened to number themselves. 

“It may be the Lord’s way after all,” said Miss Glory. 
“God moves in a mysterious way.” 

Aunt Jael and Grandmother had been asked to take tickets 
(not gratis) to a great banquet in the Corn Market, but whether 
for economy’s or godliness’ sake, decided not to go. I gather 
from the old local paper before me that they did not miss 
much; for despite the giant “railway cake,” a wonderful 
affair covered with viaducts and trains and bridges all made 
of icing sugar, and despite the vicar who ably “performed 
the devotions of the table,” the dinner is candidly described 
as “poor” and the caterer roundly trounced for her failure. 

Soon the railway passed into the realm of ordinary accepted 
things. The Meeting was at first a little exercised about its 
attitude. A few, including Brother Brawn, agreed with 
Glory and Salvation that it was the Devil’s works. The 
majority, including my Grandmother, took the pious and 
common-sense view that since the Lord permitted the thing 
it must be His Will, and prayed that he would bless and 
sanctify it to His own use and glory. 


CHAPTER IX: AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 


August the First, 1855, was the seventieth birthday of Aunt 
Jael. 

Moreover, as the Old Maids of Tawborough were seven, six 
other ladies completed their seventieth year on this self-same 
day, to wit: Miss Sarah Tombstone, Miss Keturah Crabb, Miss 
Lucy Clarke, Miss Fanny Baker, with the Misses Glory and 
Salvation Clinker. When Aunt Jael decided on the astonish- 
ing plan of a great dinner party to celebrate the day, by the 
very nature of things the Other Six figured at the head of her 
list of prospective guests. 

Who else should be invited? This question was lengthily 
discussed with Grandmother, discussed of course in Aunt Jael’s 
way; i. e. she decreed, Grandmother agreed. The party was 
to be a representative one, with a worldly element and a spir- 
itual element, a rich element and a poor element, a this-world 
element and a next-world element. There were four main 
divisions: first, the Other Six; second The Saints (selected) ; 
third, old friends; and fourth — a grudging fourth — relations. 

Of the Saints, Aunt Jael invited Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge, 
the Lord’s instrument for her own spiritual regeneration forty 
years before; Brother Brawn and Brother and Mrs. Quapple- 
worthy; and Brother Quick, he who had once proposed to 
young Jael Vickary, then the Belle of Tawborough — though 
Grandmother always averred that his shot at Aunt Jael was at 
best a ricochet. 

After much discussion and more prayer, the Lord guided 
Aunt Jael’s mind to but one solitary Old Friend; a Mr. Royle, 
churchwarden at the Parish Church, the only friend dating 
from Jael Vickary’s young unsaved days with whom she had 
kept up, if indeed decorous chats in the market when they 
chanced to meet might be so considered; for he never came to 
the house. 

Relations were a simpler problem. There were no close 
ones except the elder brother of my Great-Aunt and Grand- 

101 


MARY LEE 


102 

mother, my unknown Uncle John, who was too rheumaticky to 
travel down from London even if Aunt Jael had had a mind to 
invite him or he to accept her invitation; and my mother’s 
sister and Grandmother’s only surviving child, Aunt Martha of 
Torrib ridge, with her husband, Uncle Simeon Greeber, whom 
I had never seen; there was some feud between Aunt Jael and 
Uncle Simeon, dating from before I can remember, sufficiently 
formidable to prevent his crossing our threshold for many 
years, although he lived but eight miles away. Aunt Martha, 
however, paid us fairly frequent visits. She was a pale thin, 
indeterminate-looking woman, who impressed me so little that 
I was often unable to conjure up her face in my imagination; 
a vague, tired face, in which Grandmother’s gentleness had run 
to feebleness. When her husband was unpleasant with her, 
which according to Aunt Jael was pretty often, she submitted 
feebly; when Aunt Jael spent the whole of one of her after- 
noon visits to Bear Lawn abusing her, she listened feebly. 
For this one occasion, however. Aunt Jael decided to sacrifice 
her dislikes to that ancient law by which the family must be 
represented at all major festivals and feeds. For some time, 
too, Aunt Martha had been insisting, with all the feebleness of 
which she was capable, on Mr. Greeber’s longing for a rec- 
onciliation with his revered aunt by marriage. So he too was 
invited. The only other askable relative was a niece-in-law of 
my Grandmother’s, the daughter of old Captain Lee’s only 
sister, now a fat widow of forty-five, Mrs. Paradine Pratt. 
She lived over at Croyde, on three hundred pounds a year of 
her own; was a Congregationalist, and fond of cats. 

The final list thus comprised: Old Maids of Tawborough 
(including the hostess), seven; Saints, five; Old Friend, one; 
Relations, three. Total with Grandmother and myself, eight- 
een. Never before had such a multitude assembled within 
our doors. 

The problems of space and food were next envisaged. The 
sacred front-room was to be thrown open; there the guests 
would be entertained before and after the meal. Dinner 
would of course be served in the back-parlour; by putting the 
two spare leaves into the table and tacking a smaller table on 
at one end, Aunt Jael calculated that there would be adequate 
eating-space and breathing-space for all. 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 103 

“ ’Twill be a tight fit though. You, child, will have your 
meal in the kitchen.” 

“Then so will I,” said my Grandmother. 

Aunt Jael was taken aback. She was silent for a moment, 
casting about for another unreasonable suggestion with which 
Grandmother would have to disagree; the old trick by which 
she always strove to pretend that the guilt of cantankerous- 
ness was my Grandmother’s. 

“Glory, of course, will be in her usual stool in the corner.” 

“Now, sister, don’t be foolish — ” 

“There you go ! Disagreeing with everything I say. 
Whose party is it, mine or yours? ...” 

Miriam — Miriam who used the Great One’s porridge plate 
as spittoon — was our cook at the time. Sister Briggs, humble 
little Brother Briggs’ humbler little wife, was called in for the 
day itself as extra hand. “Proud to do it, I know,” said Aunt 
Jael, “and glad of the meal she’ll get and the pickings she’ll 
carry away.” Aunt Jael held with no nonsense of class- 
equality, no “all women-are-equal” twaddle. Spiritually the 
Briggses ranked far above unsaved emperors, or kings who 
broke not bread. Spiritually, but not socially. So while Brother 
Brawn and Sister Quappleworthy were summoned to the seats 
of the mighty in the parlour, Sister Briggs, their co-heiress in 
salvation, came to the scullery to wash-up at the price of her 
dinner, a silver shilling and pickings. 

Vast preparations went forward: a record Friday’s market- 
ing, a record scrubbing and cleaning, a record bustle and fuss. 

The great day dawned. Both armchairs had been removed 
from the back-parlour to the front-parlour to increase the 
table-space in one and the sitting accommodation in the other. 
In her familiar chair, therefore, though in an unfamiliar set- 
ting, my Great-Aunt sat enthroned: robed in her best black 
silk, crowned with a splendid cap all of white lace and blue 
velvet ribbon that I had not seen before, and armed with that 
stout sceptre I had seen (and felt) from my youth up. 

The first arrivals were Aunt Martha and her husband. They 
came over early from Torribridge, and had arranged to spend 
the whole day and stay the night with us. I was curious to see 
Mr. Greeber, as I had never seen an uncle before. Aunt Jael’s 
dislike of him whetted my curiosity, and also of course prej- 


104 


MARY LEE 


udiced me in his favour. Any such preconceived sympathy 
fled from me the moment I set eyes on him. Can I have fore- 
seen, half-consciously, that this was the creature to be re- 
sponsible for the wretchedest moments and the worst emotions 
of my life? Anyhow, I remember with photographic 
accuracy every look, every gesture, as he minced through the 
doorway behind Aunt Martha, springing softly up and down 
on the ball of the toe, moving quite noiselessly. He was a 
thin little man, narrow shouldered, small-made in every limb. 
His face was pallid, without a trace of blood showing in the 
cheeks. He had a mass of curious honey-coloured hair, that 
you would have thought picturesque, if it had crowned the 
head of a pretty woman or a lovely boy. Of the same hue was 
his pointed little beard. His mouth I did not specially notice 
till he began speaking, when he moistened his lips with his 
tongue between every few words and showed how pale and thin 
and absolutely bloodless they were. His eyes changed a good 
deal. For a moment, as when they rested on mine and read 
there my instant dislike, they answered with a moment’s stare 
of hard cruelty, such as blue eyes alone can give ; most of the 
time they rolled shiftily about, chiefly heavenward. His ges- 
tures were exaggerated; he bent his head forward, poked it 
absurdly to one side, and gave a sickly smile — intended to be 
winning — whenever he spoke. With his soft overdone polite- 
ness, his pointed little beard, his gestures, he looked like the 
traditional Frenchman of caricature; except for his eyes, 
which whether for the moment cruel or pious, had nothing in 
common with that amiable creature. He was unhealthy and 
unpleasant in some undefined way new to my experience. 
Aunt Jael had a sound judgment after all. 

He advanced to greet her, oozingly. 

“Good day, good day, dear Miss Vickary. One rejoices 
that the Lord has watched over you these three-score years 
and ten; one is thankful, thankful indeed. M’yes. Your 
kindness, too, in extending one your invitation — believe me, 
one will not readily forget it! And you too, dear Mrs. 
Lee, one is pleased to see you, to be sure. So this is the little 
one! One is well pleased to meet one’s little niece.” 

He chucked me under the chin, saw the expression in my 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 105 

eyes, and never tried the playful experiment again. It was 
hate at first sight, and he knew it. 

Aunt Jael’s voice sounded gruff — and honest — enough 
after the unctuous flow. “Well, good day to ’ee, Simeon 
Greeber, and make yourself welcome.” (Meaning: “You know 
I dislike you and always shall. Still, now that for once in a 
way you are in my house, I shall try to put up with you.”) 

A slight pause, while his eyes wandered piously round the 
room, encountering everywhere spears, clubs, tomahawks, 
idols, charms. “What interesting objects! Trophies of the 
Gospel, one may surmise! Why, surely not, surely not, can 
that great heathen image in the corner be the same, the self- 
same one, as was brought back by one’s dear late cousin, Im- 
manuel Greeber, Immanuel Greeber of Tiverton, one’s well- 
loved cousin Immanuel?” 

Benamuckee stared impassively. “Yes,” said Aunt Jael. 
“It is the same.” 

“Ah, what a symbol of folly, what a sign of darkness! The 
field of foreign labour is, of course, your own special interest 
in the Lord’s work, both yours and dear Mrs. Lee’s, is it not? 
That is well known.” 

“Yes,” replied my Grandmother, “as you know, the child 
here is dedicated to the Lord’s work among the heathen.” I 
puffed inwardly. 

“What an honour, ah, what an honour! For oneself, one 
confesses, the home field comes nearest to one’s heart; to 
one’s earnest, if humble endeavours. M’yes. There is sad 
darkness far away, in the heathen continents and pagan isles, 
one knows, one knows: but here in England among one’s 
nominal Christians, there is, alas, greater darkness still. Ah, 
these half-believers, these almost-persuaded Christians! — Once 
one was one oneself. So one knows. One was a Baptist, 
as you know, dear Sisters; one hardened one’s heart against 
the ministrations of the Saints. Then one blessed day, the 
scales fell from one’s eyes — one saw the error of one’s ways 
— and one joined the one true flock.” 

I disliked him curiously as he murmured and whispered 
away in a soft treacly flow punctuated only by sticky lip- 
moistenings and heavenward sniffs; this miracle-man who 


106 MARY LEE 

never ever used the best beloved pronoun of all the human 
race. 

His utterance was cut short by new arrivals. Grandmother 
received them in the hall, saw to the hat and coat doffing, 
and ushered them into the throne-room. I noted the slight 
variations in my Great-Aunt’s manner as she motioned the dif- 
ferent guests to chairs and accepted their congratulations 
and good wishes. With Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge she was 
regal. 

“Thank ’ee, we are old friends, you and I. Yes, thanks 
be to the Lord. I’m well enough. And you? How are ’ee?” 

“I am burdened this morning,” he said, with that kingly 
glance all round him to see that all his subjects were at- 
tentive, which we knew to herald some pearl of godly epigram. 
“Yes, I am burdened this morning.” 

“Burdened?” echoed Aunt Jael. 

“Burdened?” echoed my Grandmother. 

“Yes, dear sisters. ‘He daily loadeth us with benefits.’ 
Psalm sixty-eight, nineteen.” 

This was the old patriarch’s immemorial trick: to make 
some statement that was certain to provoke query, and then 
to explain its apparent paradox by swift quotation from the 
word of God. A later generation might think his method 
crude, his texts subtly irrelevant; but there is no question 
that the Saints, including my Grandmother and Great-Aunt, 
admired the godly wit and treasured all the texts. So when 
“the pilgrim patriarch of Tawborough” came up to me in 
the corner from which I was staring at him, I felt a high 
sense of pleasure and importance. 

“Well, well, and how is this little sapling in the Lord’s 
vineyard?” Paternally, pontifically, he patted my head. 

“Well enough, thank ’ee,” replied my Grandmother for me, 
“but not always a good little handmaiden for Him. She 
likes better to waste her time sitting and doing nothing than 
mending her socks or studying the Word. She could testify 
by a happier frame of mind and busier fingers in the house 
and by speaking more freely of the things of the Lord. Would 
you not urge her, Brother, even at this tender age to da 
something for the Master?” 

“No, I would not.” Query invited, epigram looming ahead. 


107 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 

“Then what would you do?” asked my Grandmother. 

“I would recommend her to do 6 all things’ for the Master. 
Titus, two, nine.” 

Mr. Royle stumped in, a fat short old man, with a cheer- 
ful unsaintly countenance and a general air of wealth and 
prosperity that I could put down to nothing definite except 
a heavy gold watch chain which spanned the upper slopes of 
his enormous stomach. His only rival in this particular 
quarter of the body was Mrs. Paradine Pratt. These two 
alone, who wandered wearily outside the fold in the darkness of 
Congregationalism and the Church of England, had contrived 
to put on plenteous flesh. Was there some subtle hostility, 

I recollect asking myself, between corpulence and conversion? 

The before-dinner conversation was preoccupied and scanty. 
Brother Quappleworthy came alone, as Sister Quappleworthy 
was “not — ah — too well.” 

The company repaired to the dining-room. Mr. Pentecost 
Dodderidge pronounced the Blessing, and we all sat down to 
do justice to that mighty meal. How odd this great assembly 
seemed in our austere room, now for once looking reason- 
ably well filled; I could see that the experience was as odd 
to most of the guests as it was to me. Great feasts were 
not within the ordered course of their spare and godly lives. 
There was a certain constraint around the table, quite un- 
mistakable, marked by loud and sudden silences. 

This is how we sat: 

Aunt Jael 

Pentecost Dodderidge 
Lucy Clarke 
Brother Quick 
Aunt Martha 
Uncle Simeon 
Salvation 

Glory 

Grandmother 
Mary 

(Note that the masculine element was stronger, both in 
quality and quantity, at Aunt Jael’s end of the table than at 
ours. I was put on the music stool, by my Grandmother’s side 
at the doorway end of the table, flanked by Glory on the 


mr. noyie 
Fanny Baker 
Brother Quappleworthy 
Keturah Crabb 
Brother Brawn 
Sarah Tombstone 
Mrs. Paradine Pratt 


108 


MARY LEE 


left. Salvation had pleaded for a place by dear beloved 
Brother Brawn; Aunt Jael condescended so far as to place 
them nearly opposite each other, but Brother Brawn was too 
nervous of his exposed right flank to allow his utterances 
to be a feast of good things. He could not forget the piece 
Miss Crabb had — long ago — bitten out of his beard.) 

It was a royal spread. In the old West Country fashion, 
of course — no new-fangled foreign nonsense or London 
messes. First appeared a great roast goose, a very queen 
of geese, turning the scale at fifteen pounds if an ounce. Her 
entourage included green peas, a vegetable marrow with white 
sauce, gravy, and an onion stuffing beyond the power of my 
poor pen to praise. Aunt Jael carved the monster, apportion- 
ing of course the choicest tit-bits to herself, the next choicest 
to Mr. Royle and Pentecost Dodderidge, the next choicest 
to Brother Quapppleworthy, and so on; the quality of your 
portion varying with your position in Aunt Jael’s esteem. 
Thus I had a rather gristly piece of leg, and Miss Salvation 
some scraggy side-issues with that part more politely imag- 
ined in the mind’s eye than mentioned on paper. The second 
course was a great squab pie, made on Aunt Jael’s own 
recipe: slices of apple and second-cooked mutton alternately, 
six layers deep, a sprinkling of shredded onion, with plenty 
of salt and Demerara sugar, pepper and cloves, a covering 
of delicious pie-crust. The third meat course (cold) com- 
prised a fine ham and one of Mrs. Cheese’s special beef and 
ham rolls covered with bread crumbs and as big as a large po- 
lony: with pickled onions (Aunt Jael’s) and pickled plums 
(Grandmother’s), to help them down. For Sweets, which 
honest folk call pudding, you could choose between dear little 
cherry tartlets, made in our best shell-shaped patty-pans, all 
crinkled-edged; or stewed raspberries and black currants with 
junket and Devonshire cream, this fourfold alternative being 
my choice and (to this day) my own private notion of what 
they eat in heaven. On, on the banquet rolled: Cheddar 
cheese, biscuits, nuts, pomegranates, and home-made apple gin- 
ger. In contrast with Aunt Jael’s closeness and our every-day 
plain living, this sardanapalan spread was the more sensa- 
tional. The drinks were sherry, raspberry vinegar and water. 

My Great-Aunt was in a rarely serene mood., enthroned far 


109 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 

away at the head of the table, with white-haired Pentecost on 
her right hand and bald-headed Mr. Royle on her left. Sal- 
vation chewed enjoyingly; the fork method of picking your 
teeth at table struck me, uninstructed as I was, as somehow 
unsuitable for an important social gathering. She remarked 
in a noisy whisper to Glory that it was just as well we’d 
begun at last as she was feeling “tumble leer.” * Mrs. Par- 
adine panted as she ate; her damp and diminutive handker- 
chief was applied incessantly, often only just in time to pre- 
vent a trickling on to her immense bombazine bosom. I 
spied Uncle Simeon with a higher quality of curiosity. He 
knew I was watching him. In return he began craftily eye- 
ing me when I was looking elsewhere: I pretended I was un- 
aware of his scrutiny. In this specially feminine habit I was 
already an adept; and I feel sure I deceived Uncle Simeon, 
who stared his fill. When, however, I took my turn at staring, 
and he tried the same pretence, he failed utterly to deceive me, 
for I could see his eyelids twitch, while the faintest flush 
came to his pallid cheeks. 

I cannot pretend to remember much of the conversation, 
though I could invent it and be near enough the truth. The 
awkward silences were still apparent. My explanation of it 
is this: that everybody present (for all but two were Saints) 
was quite unused to meet together except for godly discours- 
ings. Though it was the creed they believed (and practised) 
to testify of holy things in season and out of season, yet all 
dimly felt that today was somehow exceptional, that it was 
neither necessary nor suitable to preach to each other over 
roast goose and squab pie Christ and Him crucified. Yet what 
other topics had they? Hence the uneasy quiet, which the 
clatter of knives and forks and the orchestration accompany- 
ing Miss Glory’s curious methods of absorbing nourishment 
only seemed to heighten. What a slobbering and sipping and 
a spluttering and a splashing! The liquid mush consisting of 
tiny morsels of goose-meat (chopped up by Grandmother) 
and scraps of soft bread mixed with stuffing and sauce and 
soaked in gravy, which she was now administering to herself 
with her wooden spoon, offered good scope for her talent; 
though being of a greater consistency than her usual goat’s 


* Empty. 


110 


MARY LEE 


milk and rusks, it did not allow her to display her supreme 
effects. Even so, she made herself heard by her far-away 
hostess. A warning look shot from the table-head: — “Quieter 
there, or to the corner yer go!” it said. 

For a moment Glory subsided, but this made the general 
silence only more obvious and painful. Aunt Jael realized that 
though good eating is the object of a dinner, good talk is the 
condition of a successful one. She stooped to conquer, broke 
the last canon of hostship, and as the great squab pie was 
placed before her, praised it blatantly. The success was 
instantaneous. Echoes of praise rang up the table. “Ay 
indeed! — a fine one that! — you’re right, Sister Vickary!” — and 
what not. Two tributes distinguished themselves, as you 
might expect. 

“There’s squab pie and squab pie,” said Miss Salvation. 
“This is squab pie,” and, last of all, when every one else had 
tired of eulogy, the still small voice: “One wonders if one 
ever tasted anything one liked so well.” 

Tongues were at last set wagging. Different recipes were 
discussed and their respective merits compared. Some 
thought the mutton should be fresh, others that second-cooked 
gave the best flavour; some that moist white sugar cooked 
better than Demerara, others that you should use hardly any 
sugar at all, as a squab pie wasn’t a sweet pie after all, now 
was it? Some thought it was, however: the idea of cooking 
apples without sugar, mutton or no mutton! Then the puff- 
paste issue was raised, and here the gentlemen joined in, as 
this was a question of taste rather than technique. Gradually 
the conversation veered to the wider topic of food in general; 
and before long every one present was exchanging tender con- 
fidences in that most intimate form of self-revelation: “one’s” 
favourite things to eat. Even Grandmother joined in. I 
alone said nothing, being under strictest orders “to be seen 
and not heard.” (I felt the restraint keenly, for I was proud 
of my own catalogue, viz: — Devonshire cream, whortleberry 
jam, mussels, tripe and treacle; then pancakes, potato-pie 
(the browned part), sage stuffing, seed-cake, junket, crab, 
apple-dumpling, bread-and-butter-pudding, especially the “out- 
side,” brawn, cockles, and black-currant jam.) 

I must have been reflecting on my own pets rather than 


Ill 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 

hearkening to the praise of other people’s, for the conversa- 
tion had changed, and they were discussing “degrees.” One 
of my favourite psalms, the 121st, / will lift up mine eyes to 
the hills, was described in the Bible as “A Song of Degrees,” 
and I had always wondered what they were. 

“Degrees, degrees? That means puttin’ letters after yer 
name, does it? Wull, then” — Salvation fumbled in her 
reticule, always a veritable mine of papers, letters, photo- 
graphs of herself, and other pieces d’identite (as though she 
lived under the fear of perpetual arrest) and produced 
triumphantly an addressed envelope — “There now!” It was 
passed round that all might read this legend: 

Miss Salvation Clinker, 

Sinner Saved by Grace, 

High Street, 

Tawborough, 

N. Devon. 

“What splendid testimony for the postman, zes I, what 
splendid testimony for the postman!” 

“But — ” Brother Quappleworthy alone dared a “but,” for 
had not he alone among the Saints achieved the honour of 
putting real letters after your name? He smiled; with maybe 
a dash of quiet superiority, with just a seasoning of annoy- 
ance, just a nice Christian seasoning, mark you, nothing more. 
“But — is that a real degree, sister?” 

“Rale degree? ’Course ’tis: S.S.G. — Sinner Saved by Grace. 
None o’ yer cheap truck: S.S.G. !” 

“Yes, yes; but like B.A. for instance, dear sister?” 

“B.A.? I’m a B.A. too.” 

“You a B.A.?” echoed voices. 

“Yes: Born Again!” shouting. 

“Quite so, quite so, please God so are we all. But I am 
talking of earthly degrees.” 

“Are yer? Wull, I’m a-talking uv ’eavenly ones!” 

“There’s B.B. too,” put in little Lucy Clarke, nervously 
seeking to pour oil on troubled waters, “two B’s arter your 
name, I think it is, tho’ mebbe I’m wrong.” 

“Two B’s or not two B’s!” observed Mr. Royle, and laughed 
loudly when he found that no one else did. I wondered why. 


112 


MARY LEE 


I doubt if any one present saw the point except my Great-Aunt 
and Grandmother and Brother Quappleworthy. It was many 
years before I did. 

“Good, sir, good,” said the latter worldlily, “a quotation 
from the works of Shakespeare, if I mistake not.” 

“Shakespeare!” shrieked Miss Salvation, as though utter- 
ing some lewd word, “I’m surprised at ’ee, ’avin’ the chick 
to mention such a sinner’s name in a Christian ’ouse; an 
’eathen play-actin’ sinner, now wallerin’ in everlastin’ torment 
for his sins.” 

“How do you know he is ?” asked my Grandmother quietly. 

“And ’ow du ’ee know ’e isn’t? A Papis’ too.” 

Blessed are the peacemakers, so Lucy Clarke tried again. 

“I don’t think ’tis B.B. at all after all; ’tis D.D., two D’s 
arter your name in a manner o’ spaikin’.” 

“Yes, it’s D.D.,” said Aunt Jael. “All the big preachers 
in the Establishment print it after their names; not but what 
their preaching is poor enough. Letters after your name don’t 
put either a tongue into your head or the knowledge of 
God into your heart. I’ve no patience with D.D.’s.” 

“None,” echoed the table. 

“Not so,” corrected Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge. “It is a 
great pity there are so few D.D.’s.” 

“Surely not!” exclaimed the table, awaiting pearls. 

“Yes, we want more Down in the Dust. Psalm one hun- 
dred and nineteen, verse twenty-five. Then we would also have 
more ‘quickened according to Thy Word.’ ” 

A pause, forced by the awkward finality of the patriarch’s 
utterance. 

“Er — let me see,” said Mr. Royle to Brother Quappleworthy, 
“you are an M.A. of the University of Oxford, are you not, 
sir?” 

“Yes,” was the reply, spoken with just a seasoning of par- 
donable pride, just a Christian seasoning, mark you, nothing 
more. “Yes” (confidentially) “as a matter of fact I am. 
I took my degree, second-class honours, in the classics : ‘Greats’ 
as we say — ” 

“Did yer?” interrogated Salvation (for pride is a deadly sin 
and a weed that must be checked, lest it grow apace) . “Wull, 
/ took my degree in summat greater, in God’s great Scheme o’ 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 


113 


Salvation, and I passed with first-class honners, glory be! 
Unuvursity uv Oxvurrd eh? My schoolin’ ’as been in the 
Unuvursity uv God!" 

After that I recollect nothing clearly till all the guests, save 
Uncle Simeon and Aunt Martha, were gone, and late in the 
evening we sat talking in the unfamiliar idol-haunted dusk 
of the front parlour. I can feel again as I write the heat 
of that stuffy August night, and hear Aunt Jael’s and Uncle 
Simeon’s voices engaged in the talk that is stamped indelibly on 
my mind. I recall the scene most intimately when the same 
external circumstances recur. The heavy-laden atmosphere 
of a hot August evening, at that still murmurous moment 
when twilight is yielding to night — the smell, the touch, the 
impalpable feel of the atmosphere — always brings back to me 
every phase and pulse of my feelings as I sat listening to 
the warfare of deep raucous voice and soft honeyed one. 
The memory of the senses far transcends the memory of the 
mind. Memory in its most intimate possessions is physical. 

Though mental too. In this particular instance, quite 
apart from any physical aid to memory that atmosphere brings, 
I remember, verbally, almost all that was said. It is odd 
that while for stretches of whole months I can often fill in 
but the dimmest background of my early days, at other times 
I retain the fullest details of a long and intricate conversa- 
tion, with the gestures of the speakers and the very words 
they used. The explanation is to be found partly, I think, 
in the extreme monotony of my life and the uncommonly 
vivid impression which any break in the monotony always 
made; so that this record tends to be a stringing-together of 
the odd and outstanding events rather than an even and 
continuous narration of my “early life”; for it was a life of 
landmarks. But the chief explanation of the uncanny degree 
to which I remember certain particular scenes lies in my 
nightly “rehearsals.” If there had been any scene or words 
of special interest in the day’s round — if I had observed a 
new phenomenon (such as a Madonna or a gold watch-chain) 
— if I had heard a new word (like University) or had new 
light shed on an old one (like Degrees) — if in short the day 
had yielded any new fact or idea, the same night saw it 


114 


MARY LEE 


deliberately stored in my mind; a treasure-house — a lumber- 
room — which stood open to all comers. Every night, as soon 
as I was in bed and my Grandmother had blown out the 
candle and closed the door behind her, I began. I thought 
my way through the day, from the moment I had risen on- 
wards. Every new notion or notable event, I recalled, re- 
lived, and received into the fellowship of things I knew, felt 
and remembered; into myself. I had also weekly, monthly 
and yearly revisions. 

This seventieth birthday of Aunt Jael’s was a red-letter 
day. My emotions as I lay awake watching with memory’s 
eye that curious dinner party, with its wealth of new food, 
new faces, new situations, new sensations and new talk, were 
of the same order as those of a playgoer who lives over in his 
mind the pleasures of a new and brilliant drama he has wit- 
nessed. New persons and new conversations were my favour- 
ite acquisitions; these were in the strict sense dramatic, and 
they approached most nearly the other habit of my inner 
life — my visualizings and imaginings — of which indeed they 
furnished the raw material. I would only memorize conversa- 
tions from the point at which they began to interest me; hence, 
even when I remember them best, they begin suddenly, and 
causelessly. 

So it was with the conversation on that memorable evening. 
I fancy Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon had already been talk- 
ing for some time — probably on the things of the Lord, which 
were not new and not dramatic — but I recall nothing until 
Uncle Simeon was well set in a review of his life; his holy, 
if humble life. 

“M’yes, ah yes, the Lord found it good to try one’s faith; 
from the very day on which one saw the error of one’s ways, 
and the scales fell from one’s eyes, and one closed with God’s 
gracious offer, from that very day the Lord found it good to 
extend His hand in chastisement and to visit one with trials 
and afflictions. One bowed one’s head: but it was a sore trial 
for one’s faith, one’s earnest, if humble, faith. First one’s 
sister passed away, one’s dear sister Rosa. Then came one’s 
business troubles, one’s ill health, one’s grave illness. Last 
of all one’s dear old father went before — ” 

“Your brother too,” interrupted my Great-Aunt. “You don’t 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 115 

mention him; and he was the best of the Greebers, from all 
accounts.” 

“Ah, surely not, surely not?” ignoring the main point of 
the interruption, “what of Immanuel Greeber, who gave you 
these glorious trophies of the field of missionary labour, 
one’s well-loved cousin Immanuel?” 

“There was some mystery about his death,” pursued she, 
ignoring red-herring missionaries. “They never really knew 
how he died. Immanuel told me. He went to lie down in 
his bed one afternoon, saying he felt sick, and within the hour 
he was dead.” 

“Ah, yes,” sighed Uncle Simeon, passing his hand over 
his brow in anguish, “one had not spoken of him; one could 
not; one’s love was too tender. Heart-failure, one thought 
oneself. M’yes.” His head m’yessed sadly to and fro. 

“More like something he’d been eating,” suggested my 
Grandmother. 

“Too sudden for that,” objected Aunt Jael. “No bad food 
could kill you so sudden. ’Twas something a deal quicker 
than bad food ; more mysterious, folk said.” 

“Poison,” said I. 

I was staggered at the sound of my own voice. All day 
I had been mute, observing so obediently Aunt Jael’s “To 
be seen and not heard” mandate that she had been almost 
annoyed. Listening was more remunerative than talking; it 
yielded the wealth for my lonely talks with myself. I think 
it was that in my interest in this mysterious death I forgot 
I was not alone; and so uttered aloud the word “Poison” 
that leapt absurdly to my mind. 

The effect on Uncle Simeon’s face amazed me. 

His look of meek head-nodding sorrow gave place to one 
of such unmistakable guilt that the most monstrous suspi- 
cions seized me; nor did they disappear when guilt changed 
to fear, then fear to hate; still less when hate in its turn gave 
place to the meek accustomed mask. Mask it was, for I 
had seen him deliberately twitch the muscles of his face 
back into position. From that moment, and with no other 
evidence than a few seconds’ change of expression, in which 
my eyes might have been deceiving me, I believed him a 
murderer. 


116 


MARY LEE 


Grandmother and Aunt Jael saw nothing of this. The first 
was too short-sighted — the room was nearly dark, and no 
candle had been lighted — the second was too busy for the 
moment rating me for breaking laws and talking “outrageous 
nonsense” to keep her eyes on him. 

This gave him time to twitch the muscles of his brain and 
tongue back into position also. 

“Anyway, whatever the sad cause of his earthly death, one 
may rejoice that he went to be with the Lord.” 

“Yes, and that he left all his money to you. Leastways 
there was no will found, and you were next of kin. That 
helped to console you a little, maybe.” 

“Miss Vickary!” 

“Yes, more than a little, too. It left you enough to close 
your shop in Bristol and do nothing ever since.” 

“Nothing, Miss Vickary, nothing? All one’s years of hard, 
if humble, toil in the Lord’s vineyard, one’s ministrations to 
the Saints — nothing? And poor Joseph’s wealth, it was but 
a modest sum — ” 

“So modest no one’s ever heard. It’s mock poverty yours, 
and you know it.” 

“But one’s humble manner of life should show — ” 

“Folk as are mean aren’t always poor.” 

“Aunt!” pleaded Martha feebly. 

“Mean; dear Miss Vickary, may you one day regret that 
unjust word. Far be it from one to speak of all that one 
has given to the gospel work in Torribridge, of all that one 
has lent to the Lord. Yet what are worldly riches? One 
cares only for the unsearchable riches of Christ. What are 
the earthly gifts one may have given away? One has given 
to many a greater gift far. Not only the knowledge of 
Salvation, but a Christian deed here, a helping hand there — ” 

“Open sepulchre! Helping hand — like when Rachel and 
Christian lay dying, and you forbade Martha to leave Torri- 
bridge even for a few hours to come and help her mother. Let 
your wife’s mother half kill herself, and her brother and sister 
crawl into their graves before you’d let her move. ‘Couldn’t 
spare her’ from the side of yer ‘dear little son’ — ugly little 
brat, I’m glad you’ve not brought him here today.” 

Now there was a spice of righteous protest in the meek 


117 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 

voice. “Pray what has one’s poor little son done to be so 
spoken of? Or one’s dear wife to hear him so spoken of?” 

Martha was silently wiping her eyes. Aunt Jael, strug- 
gling with temper, made no reply. 

“Or oneself to see one’s wife so wounded? One has never 
forgiven oneself for not realizing till alas too late how near 
the end dear Rachel and dear Christian were; but at the time 
one’s little baby-boy was ailing, and Martha none too strong. 
One was selfish, perhaps.” 

“Ay.” Temper rising. 

“One failed in one’s duty to dear Mrs. Lee, because of one’s 
jealous care of one’s dear child and wife.” 

“Fiddlesticks! I know some of your goings-on. Poor 
Martha!” 

“Poor Martha? One fails to understand. If Martha had 
been treated as poor Rachel’s husband treated her; if she had 
suffered cruelty — adultery — vileness — sin; if one were hound- 
ing her to her grave as he hounded poor Rachel; if one had 
killed her and broken her heart, and then sneered that one 
could not pay to bury her — ” 

“The brute,” cried Aunt Jael, sidetracked. 

His crude attempt to transfer her rising wrath on to the head 
of another had succeeded. He knew the quality of the mem- 
ories he evoked. 

“The brute; the cruel, fleshly scoundrel!” 

“Hush, Aunt,” whispered Aunt Martha, “after all it is the 
Child’s father.” 

I coloured violently, and my heart beat fast. The unfamil- 
iar phrase “Rachel’s husband” had conveyed nothing. Now 
I was throbbing with excitement, curiosity and shame. 

“Well, let her know the truth.” 

“0 Mother, plead with Aunt not to talk so!” Aunt Martha 
was trying to stifle the topic on to which her husband had so 
successfully emptied the vials of Aunt Jael’s wrath. He gave 
her a “you wait till afterwards” glance that told me a good 
deal, concentrated though I was on this other overshadowing 
thing. 

“I don’t know,” said my Grandmother, “leave your Aunt be. 
The child will have to know it some day; and ’tis the truth.” 
She sighed. 


118 


MARY LEE 


“There you are! If a child has the wickedest beast of a 
man on earth for her father, the sooner she knows it the better, 
so that she may mend her ways and turn out a bit different her- 
self. She has more than a spice of his ways about her already. 
She’d best be told every jot and tittle of the whole story. No 
one’s too young to hear the truth, ’Tis your task though, Han- 
nah. You tell her, if you think fit. But not tonight, it’s past 
the child’s bed-time. Be off now! To bed!” 

I undressed feverishly, that I might be the sooner in bed to 
go through all I had heard. I recited hymns rapidly to myself 
so that I should not think at all till I could do so properly and 
at peace. 

Grandmother came in for her nightly prayer. 

“Grandmother, is it true? My father. Who is he? What 
did he do? Tell me, is it true?” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“Did he do — all those wicked things?” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“Will you tell me everything?” 

“Yes, my dear, if the Lord so wills. Let us approach the 
throne of grace and discover His good pleasure.” 

Down on my knees by her side I watched her as she asked 
the Almighty whether He willed that the story of my father and 
mother should be told me. Grandmother was always fair. 
She did not try to influence the Lord’s decision, as Aunt Jael 
might have done, by giving undue weight in her supplications 
to the arguments either for or against. 

“Dost Thou will that at this tender age she should learn of 
these sorrows, that they may be sanctified to her for Thy name’s 
sake; or dost Thou ordain that I should wait yet awhile 
before I speak?” 

We waited the Answer. I knew it would be “Yes,” I 
knew it with the sudden instinct that so often served me. 
Prayer and intuition were indeed sharply commingled in my 
mind. One was your speaking to God, the other God speak- 
ing to you. God is swifter; instinct is swifter than prayer; 
answer than question. 

“Tell the child now? So be it, Lord; since such is the 
answer that Thou hast vouchsafed.” 

Then she prayed that the story might be richly blessed 


AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 119 

to me, and that he whom it chiefly concerned might be 
given, despite all, contrite heart and true forgiveness. 

When she left me to myself and darkness, I was repeat- 
ing to myself the stinging words I had heard. Cruelty, 
adultery, vileness, sin — the fleshly scoundrel — he had hounded 
my mother to her grave, broken her heart — killed her. He 
my father. I had a father then. It is proof of the gaps 
in my many-sided visualizings day after day and night after 
night that I had never thought of this, never even wondered 
whether I had a father or not. 

I did not know how to wait till the morrow. Perhaps they 
\Vere talking about it downstairs; I jumped out of bed, crept 
halfway down the stairs, and listened. The front-room door 
was shut, and though I soon heard that a duologue between 
Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon was in progress, I could make 
out only a few words here and there. My imagination con- 
structed a conversation connected with myself, and somehow 
too at the same time with Torribridge and Aunt Martha and 
studies. I did not think much of it at the time, as my ears 
were hungry for “father” and “mother” only — “Rachel” and 
“Rachel’s husband.” 

I went back to bed. Early next day Uncle Simeon and 
Aunt Martha returned to Torribridge. 


CHAPTER X: ~ OLD LETTERS 


Next day after dinner, when Aunt Jael had settled down 
for her doze, Grandmother called me upstairs to her bed- 
room, pulled out an old brown tin box from under the bed, 
unlocked it, and drew forth a large brown paper packet. 
We sat down, and she told me my mother’s story. 

“Your father belonged to a different class from us, my 
dear, quite to the gentlefolk of the county. Your mother 
met him at his cousin’s, Lord Tawborough’s, when she was 
governess there. 

“This Lord Tawborough died a few years ago. The boy 
who now bears that name is a lad of maybe seventeen or 
eighteen, who I expect knows nothing about it at all, although 
he was very fond of your mother when she taught him as 
a little boy.” 

“Shall I ever see him?” 

“No, my dear, no. You are in a different walk of life. 
Young squires don’t come to visit us. Not that his father 
ever had any false pride; I know he was always very kind 
to me. He came to Rachel’s funeral, and never had his cousin 
— your father, that is — inside his house after the trouble. He 
wanted to help us too in educating you, but I said No. 1 
would not touch money belonging in any way to him, though 
I’ve forgiven him long ago, as I trust the Lord has. He 
thought I was too independent, but maybe he understood all 
the same. I’ve heard that the young boy is as good-hearted as 
his father. He lives at the family house over near Torri- 
bridge; he’s just going up to Oxford, I believe, like his father, 
or maybe ’tis Cambridge — ” 

“What is Oxford-and-Cambridge? Brother Quappleworthy 
was there.” 

“They’re two big colleges, or universities as they call them, 
where the gentlefolk go. Anyway, his father was always kind 
to us and ashamed of his cousin. He said to me when he 
called to see us after your dear mother’s death that he felt 

120 


OLD LETTERS 121 

guilty because Rachel met her husband in his house. How- 
ever, there ’tis, they were married. I never took to him and 
your Aunt Jael could never abide the sight of him. ’Twas 
a cruel time. I can’t tell you all now, my dearie, though 
one day you may know. But I’m going to read you some 
of the letters she wrote. Here they all are, I’ve not had the 
heart to touch this package since they were tied up ten years 
ago. She wasn’t happy from the start, though she wrote brave 
letters home. We first got to know how it was with her through 
your great-uncle, her uncle John. She’d stayed once or twice 
with him in London, as a little girl, and he loved her dearly. 
We have never seen much of him since he first went away 
over fifty years ago. He and Jael don’t get on together; he’s 
an invalid too, and not able to take a journey. After your 
dear mother died he let me see all her letters to him, and 
I copied them out. Here is one of the first, written just 
three or four months after she was married, the ‘long letter’ 
I call it:” 


The White House. 

Torquay, 

August 14th, 1845. 

Dear Uncle John, — 

Thank you for you kind letter of sympathy. Yes, I am an unhappy 
woman, and unhappy for life. 

Perhaps it will simplify matters for me to say that he is in a very, 
precarious mental condition. The doctor tells me he has every symptom 
of softening of the brain. Though the disease may not culminate for 
several years. He says my one object must be to keep him quiet and 
not oppose or excite him in any way, as that would always tend to hasten 
the climax, and would make things very trying for myself, especially 
just now; for I must tell you that something will be happening to me, 
about next February I think. Last week he had a dreadful turn, and 
said the most cruel things, shouting and sneering at me like one de- 
mented. I went off then to the doctor, really thinking myself he was 
there and then going or gone out of his mind. He told me what I have 
said, and through all subsequent improvement adheres to the same 
opinion; he is very kind and sympathizing to me, calls it, “a painful and 
extraordinary case,” and tells me not to be upset when he gets into this 
state with me — that it is an almost invariable symptom of the disease for 
the patient to set upon his wife and bring against her outrageous ac- 
cusations of every sort, that I must not contradict him in whatever he 
says, but rather “assume contrition for faults you have not committed, 
regarding him as an invalid that cannot be dealt with by ordinary rules.” 


122 


MARY LEE 


I must tell you that I have begun to doubt all this, I don’t mean the doc- 
tor but my husband. He has a nervous weakness, it is true, but exag- 
gerates this when he goes to see the doctor by getting himself into a 
state, then the doctor says he has softening of the brain and that will 
excuse all his ill-treatment to me. 

That is not all, the two youths, Maurice and Trevor who are 
living in the house and whom he calls his “cousins,” are really his 
illegitimate sons, he told me so outright and mocked at me when I 
blushed. They swear and shout at me, and he encourages them. 
With all this he is the leader at the Room, the meeting of the Close 
Brethren we go to. The Saints don’t seem to like him very much. 
I think they know something of his goings on. My dear uncle, I 
charge you not to speak of all this; I should not on any account 
like mother to know it, it could do no good for her to worry. He 
may keep like this for years^ or perhaps I might be taken away to 
the Lord first. 

I was glad of your loving letter; had begun to think there must be 
one awaiting me (from the style of your previous one) before yesterday 
morning confirmed it. They raise objection however at the Post Office, 
saying it is against the rules for residents to have them left there, so 
I suppose you must address to me here. Philip seems never to expect 
me to show him my letters. I did one a few weeks ago, in which 
there was some business message or statement. So you will always 
be safe in writing direct. It is one of his peculiarities that though he 
has often thrown at me my depth, “keeping matters to myself,” “tell- 
ing him nothing,” etc. etc., yet from the very first he declined to see 
my letters. I used even to press him to do so but he replied one day, 
“I take no interest in letters from people I don’t know, still less from 
common people” (among whom my relations are included). Then if I 
tried reading him any specially interesting extracts he would say it 
wearied him or would assure me I had read or told him all that before. 
Since he said one day, “Dear me, what shopkeeper’s talk!” I have 
quite given up intruding my correspondence on him. At rock bottom 
it is a sort of jealousy. Some husbands seem to have the idea that 
their wives should throw to the winds all old ties and relationships. 

As to my going home now; it is utterly out of the question. All other 
objections apart, I could not now take the journey. Then as to having 
Mother here, as things are (even if he would allow it), the worry of 
it would do me more harm than her presence could do me good. There 
might be an actual outbreak on his part, and Maurice and Trevor 
would give her an experience such as I would spare her at all costs. 
What could she do for me? Later on, I should have a nurse and of 
course a doctor, the kind one I spoke of, the one Philip consults. You 
rather mistake me as to the possible end these matters may bring. 

I don’t mean that I should be more likely to die from what has been 
taking place, simply that from natural causes it is a thing that has 
to be faced at such a time. Many women do, who have all the love 
and devotion they can require, and I have all along felt (not fore- 


OLD LETTERS 


123 


bodingly or morbidly, but as a matter of fact) that such an event 
might be of more than ordinary risk in my case. I am not very strong, 
and always lacking in power of endurance, and then I am so wretchedly 
unhappy and lonely. All my trouble and despondency will lessen the 
natural clinging to life and give me instead a longing to be at rest 
beyond it all, as far as self only is concerned. But on the other hand 
if the baby lives, that will be sufficient counteractive against my giv- 
ing-away tendency. I shall feel more than a mother in ordinary case 
could do that I must try to live for its sake. Any other issue I am 
content to leave in God’s hands but cannot face the thought of leav- 
ing the child behind me — with him. So if I should be taken, don’t 
trouble yourself with the thought that my end has been hastened by 
these things that ought not to have been. For the Lord, I believe, 
has taken special care of me and given me more health of body than 
I could under ordinary circumstances have expected, to meet the extra 
strain laid on mind and spirit. So we may trust surely by what has 
gone before that He will uphold me all through with special health 
and strength. “He setteth His rough wind in the day of His east 
wind” has been constantly before me of late. 

I shall not leave my husband as long as it can anyhow be avoided. 
Death is to me a far more welcome thought to face than being a trouble 
or a burden for my friends. There are troubles in which sympathy 
makes all the difference, but between husband and wife it is different, 
and the quieter one can keep things the better. Uncle, dear, don’t you 
see that the sting and real heart-bitterness a woman must feel at wrong 
and unkindness from the one from whom she has expected only love 
and protection, can never be healed or soothed by proclaiming it to 
the world at large or by leaving him? It may be pride or self-respect 
that makes me shrink from the thought of such a thing, but have 
no scruples as to your responsibility in keeping it quiet, since I told 
you I have no bodily fear of him, and he knows it. Suppose you tell 
mother or any one else, if they share your view they can but repeat 
the same arguments, and if repeated twenty times my feelings and 
instincts remain the same. Say nothing, uncle, for my sake if not 
for his — for mother’s too. It is true if I came away he could not. 
rail at me but still that is only the outward expression of what is within: 
and which distance would not alter, and with the baby it will be easier 
to bear. I shall have something to live for and comfort myself with„ 
and considering his condition I cannot see that it would be right to 
leave him unless I am in danger of my life. It is a wife’s duty to 
endure. I have thought of speaking to Mr. Frean, a leading Brother 
at the meetings and a very kind man. I think a fear of exposure in 
this quarter would have more weight with him. While he can afford 
to set at nought the opinions of my friends and relatives at a safe 
distance, he clings very tenaciously to his religious position. I should 
have sympathy there. I think they know I have something to put up 
with and they show me great kindness and would show more if 1 
availed myself of it. Philip remarked one day it was strange that 


124 


MARY LEE 


“his wife should be popular at the Room while he never had been!” 

On one point your anxiety is needless. I have what I wish for in 
the shape of nourishment. Was never a large or extravagant eater, 
but what I want I have. Was reflecting only a day or two ago that 
this is the one point on which he uniformly shows me consideration. 
In fact, I think he does this on purpose to salve his conscience, and 
to have something to throw back at me. Once when I said “Oh, 
Philip, don’t be so unkind to me,” he replied, “Unkind? Damn you, 
I don’t see what you have to complain of, you’re living on the fat of 
the land, better than with your shopkeeper friends.” Sometimes, you 
know, I believe he imagines he loves me; perhaps he does as much 
■as he would any wife, but I have told him he does not know what 
love is. Love ! 

The only thing which sometimes nearly drives me to the breaking 
point is this; he praises my amiability, meekness, wifeliness, obedience, 
and says “you are different from most women who are always either 
nagging and answering back or gloomy and sulky.” I am “so much 
better than he ever expected.” When he talks like that I feel stirred 
up to say some pretty plain things to him, and clear my mind at all 
costs, but then if I do I might excite him and bring on a fit of apoplexy 
or paralysis as the doctor said. If I say the least little word he holds 
this over my head. I wonder now, after only a few short months, 
why I ever married him. I have spoilt my whole life. Two years ago, 
I was a happy young woman; and now — Don’t write to him, don’t 
threaten him, and don’t come near here, it can do no good. Good-bye, 
Uncle dear. 

Your ever loving 

Rachel. 

My Grandmother paused. I know what I thought — I can 
live my feelings again at this moment, forty years later. 

“At the time,” said my Grandmother, “Rachel said very 
little to me. I knew it was difficult, but not as unhappy as 
it was. In the March of the next year a baby boy was born. 
You’re not old enough, my dear, to know what it is to be a 
mother when her baby comes; a man should be good and 
kind to his wife more than at any time, and thank the Lord 
most of ’em are. He was wicked. May the Lord in his mercy 
forgive him. Still, the baby made her happier. Here is a 
letter she wrote to me a month or two after it was born.” 

The White House. 

Torquay, 

May 20th, 1846. 

My Dearest Mother, — 

Thank you for all the loving sympathy from all. Am getting on 
well, though the heat has been trying me greatly. I came downstairs 


OLD LETTERS 125 

yesterday. I cannot stand a minute without help, as the lying in bed 
has made me so weak. Baby is doing first-rate, grows more engaging 
every day. It was rather too bad of you to rejoice in my disappoint- 
ment, especially as the little girl was to have been named after my dear 
mother. What is the supposed advantage you see in a boy? Why is 
a boy thought more of than a girl? Perhaps you are proud of having 
a grandson; I certainly have centred all my ideas on a girl; I have 
always had an idea that the child I should have that would be most 
like me, and who would do what I might have done if I had been 
happier , would be a girl. I feel so still; though I can’t tell you 
why. 

But this is a dear little man and I should not like to spare him now 
be has come. He never squeals but stares the whole time; the doctor 
says he is big enough for five or six months old. After the miserable 
state I’ve been in, I rather wondered whether his brain would be right, 
but he is certainly “all there,” and a bit over, if it comes to that. He 
is very sharp. But he is very good at night and has slept seven hours 
right off for five nights past. He notices everything, his little eyes 
will dance round after any one who notices him and when the door one 
day suddenly rattled with the wind he turned his eyes towards it with 
a look of inquiry and astonishment. Some wagging ends on Nurse’s 
cap are a source of unfailing interest. He has not a flaw or even a 
sore upon him, has a nice little round, comfortable, sensible face, just 
plump enough to be well conditioned but not coarse. I think he is some- 
thing like Martha. He has nice eyes, dark blue, which when closed take 
rather a Japanese curve, the Traies’ snub nose, a pretty little mouth, 
large hands, very long fingers with pretty little filbert nails. He is 
more like his father than anybody in face. He is full of pretty little 
antics, will clasp his hands as if in prayer, or shade one over his eyes 
with a thumb extended, exactly like “saying grace.” Will labour hard 
sometimes to stuff both fists into his mouth at once, it is amusing to 
see his wriggles and struggles, getting quite angry, till at last he gets 
hold of some knuckle or thumb and settles down to enjoy it. He wants 
his milk very irregularly, but so far I’ve kept pace with him. . . . We 
have not yet decided on his name. Not Philip, I think, for I don’t 
like the “big Bessie, little Bessie, old George, young George” plan. I 
should like Harold or Edgar, or perhaps Christian — by the way I’m 
sorry to hear that Chrissie is still so weak, give him my best love. Do 
you know that baby’s birth made me want to like Philip more than 
ever? I told him so the other day, he just sneered. It’s hard, mother, 
isn’t it? But I must not worry you', or make you think he is really 
treating me so very badly, he sees that I get all the food and nourish- 
ment I need. Don’t believe all Uncle John says! 

Here I must conclude as I’m not yet strong enough to write more. 
G£ve my love to Aunt Jael, and to Hannah, and my respects to Mr. 
Greeber, when you write. With my dearest love to you mother, I remain 

Your loving 

Rachel. 


126 MARY LEE 

“Here is one she wrote to her Uncle about the same time:” 

The White House. 

Torquay, 

June 24th, 1846. 

My dearest Uncle John, — 

Many thanks for your kind and prompt reply to my note. My reason 
for requiring a promise was that I feared that on knowing how things 
stood you might be unwilling still to do nothing, as I know you have 
even as much of the outspoken Vickary disposition as Aunt Jael! 
You will be sorry if not surprised when I tell you that my husband 
leads me a more trying life than ever. I cannot repeat or write the 
words he uses or the things he abuses his position as a husband to 
do. My little boy is the only earthly comfort I have, and but for him 
and the dear Lord I don’t think I could have borne up at all. I have 
kept it carefully from my own family all along, it is not my fault that 
mother knows as much as she does. I hate her to have to bear my 
troubles. Then, too, I’ve excused things on the ground of disease, for 
his mind is disordered, but still he is nothing like so far gone but that he 
could behave better if he chose. I am surer than ever that he deceives 
the doctor so that he can use the bad view of his health which the 
doctor takes, as a cloak for all his cruelty. ’Tis very good of you to 
assure me of your help but I will still try to stay with him, and so far 
he has not used actual bodily violence. He has gone the length of 
threatening it, of lifting up his foot as though to kick me and shaking 
his fist in my face but stopped short each time, saying he was “not such 
a — fool as to give me a chance of getting the law for him!” I will 
promise this: to make your silence conditioned on his behaviour not 
getting worse. That may have some effect on him. But mother must 
not be worried. In any case it would not be worth while to try to 
come here to see him, he has threatened he will set the dogs on them 
if he finds any of my relatives “prowling about the place.” 

Don’t worry about me. Now that I have my little boy to kiss and 
comfort me I can put up with everything. 

Your loving niece, 

Rachel. 


“And here is another to me:” 


The White House, 
Torquay. 

Aug. 20th, 1846. 

My dear Mother, — 

Many thanks for kindly sending on the vests, they are (both sizes) a 
nice easy fit, and I’m very pleased with them. I am feeling better, though 
Torquay is very relaxing and in the summer, at times, unbearable. 

Now that Uncle John seems to have told you all it is no good pretend- 
ing any longer that I am anything but absolutely wretched. Believe me, 
mother, it was not dishonesty but for your sake only that I said so little. 


127 


OLD LETTERS 

Now it is getting so bad that I should not have been able to keep it from 
you longer. They are all behaving disgracefully, worse than ever. Not 
only all the family, the two boys Maurice and Trevor, I mean, but all 
the servants too, and the very errand lads who come to the house are en- 
couraged to be insulting. I’m really afraid to go about the house and 
when keeping in my own immediate quarters am shouted at and annoyed 
from stairs and windows. He and Maurice attacked me together last 
week, or rather he called Maurice to join in, and the two called forth 
the most unprovoked and outrageous insolence while the scullery maid 
shrieked with delight and clapped her hands at the fun. Another day* 
the cook threw a cabbage root at me when I went into the kitchen, hit- 
ting me on the neck. Mr. Trams’ only redress when I turned to him 
was “That’s nothing, you shouldn’t go into quarters where you’re not 
wanted. A wife in her kitchen, indeed! what are we coming to?” It is 
something sickening the whole time; I know I shall go mad before long. 
Have run right out of the house twice lately but the poor child drags me 
back. I don’t know that you can do anything beyond plainly speaking 
your mind, or threatening to expose him right and left if that would do 
any good. There certainly ought to be some law to prevent a woman 
being hounded out of her life by the very servants in the house. If I 
say the least word or attempt to expostulate he puts his hand up to his 
forehead, begins to moan and say “the doctor said I was on no account to 
have opposition, he said it might bring on a fit, indeed I think it is com- 
ing.” The wretched man — is there no law in England to save a woman 
from cruelty far worse than the things for which she can get the courts 
for her? Last week, he actually laughed in my face, “Your heart is 
breaking I suppose,” he sneered. I said “Yes,” looking him straight in 
the face. “It’s a damned long time about it,” he said. Yet I can do 
nothing; that is not cruelty! I do wish he would do me some real 
bodily harm that would give me a hold over him as long as he didn’t 
permanently incapacitate me. I have thought of asking Brother Frean 
at the Meeting to find me a safe temporary lodging where I could go, 
and say I would not return until he dismissed these insolent maids. 
That would be at least one point gained. But until he sent Maurice 
away there would be no real improvement. You cannot imagine, mother 
the filthy things he says, and does before me. They have made a com- 
plete tool of the new servant too. She has been very unsatisfactory in 
every way, refusing to get up in the morning and shouting at me. How- 
ever she kept within bounds till I gave her a week’s notice last Wednes- 
day. Immediately he came and raved and sneered at me: “Come, come, 
the mistress of the house dismissing a housemaid, surely this is going a 
little too far,” and he ordered her to stay. Since then she has behaved 
shamefully, they all of course upholding and cheering her, making her 
presents, etc. Today I have proved her having stolen some silk handker- 
chiefs of mine, in even this he upholds her. “Freely ye have received, 
freely give,” he said! Yesterday it reached the climax. The whole pack 
were howling at me, he, looking on and mocking and encouraging them. 
Then Maurice tripped me up as I was going out of the room, and I went 
full length on the floor. In my weak state, I nearly fainted. He laughed. 


128 MARY LEE 

I still want to hold out; I will never leave him unless it is to come home 
and die. All I have to comfort me is your sympathy, my little baby and 
the love of Christ. 

In haste, your loving daughter, 
Rachel. 

My throat was very dry, I could not trust myself to speak. 

“Soon after,” went on my Grandmother, “the little baby 
boy died, and then we persuaded her to take a holiday. At 
least we put it to her that we thought we hoped it might be 
bringing her away from him for good. She came home, 
spending November and December of 1846 with us at home 
in the old house in the High Street, and then went to her 
Uncle John’s in London for the first few weeks of ’47. 
When your mother left her uncle, she came to us again 
for a few days and then decided to go back to her husband. 
Jael was against it, but she was sure it was her duty to the 
Lord, and I would not persuade her though my heart sank 
when she left us. He behaved worse than before. The last 
few months at Torquay were beyond her endurance and she 
began to sink away. Now here is a letter your great-uncle 
wrote me just before she left him, when things had reached 
their worst.” 


Messrs Vibart & Vickary, 
Mincing Lane, 

London. 

Jan. 3rd, 1848. 

Dear Hannah, — 

I have been out of patience with you as you will know. Since last 
March when she stayed with you and you allowed her to go back to the 
fellow. If I don’t hear definitely that she has left him within the next 
ten days, infirm though I am, I shall take the coach to Exeter and on to 
Torquay taking a friend with me, and if we have any trouble whatever 
with Traies he will get such a thrashing that he will not be able to appear 
in public for some time. If ever there was a cruel, damned scoundrel 
who deserved shooting he does, and should not in the least mind putting 
a few bullets into him. What annoys me more than anything is that 
you should encourage the poor girl, agreeing with her that it is her 
Christian duty to remain there all this time and put up with such diaboli- 
cal cruelty; worst of all now that there is another child on the way. 

Let me know at once that she has left him or I shall act without delay. 

Your affectionate brother 


John. 


OLD LETTERS 129 

“And here is the last letter she ever wrote me herself. It 
was snowing the day it reached me:” 

The White House. 

Torquay, 

Jany 7th, 1848. 

My dearest Mother, — 

Your kind and loving letter came yesterday. Well, mother dear, 1 
have given in. I have decided to go away. ] am weaker now, broken in 
body and spirit, and if I stay here with his taunts and ill-treatment l 
shall go mad or die. In any case I think it is the latter; but now that 
there is a child coming, for its sake I must go where I shall have more 
peace. My life is a broken failure. Four short years ago what a happy 
girl I was at the Hall with kind people around me, a loving little boy 
as my daily companion, and I was a credit and pride to you all. I know 
you never wanted me to marry him. I chose my way and I have failed 
utterly. Yes I know, mother, I know with a positive assurance that 
I could have loved a good and loving husband as much as any woman 
in the world; it was in me. Well, it is no good talking of that now, for 
I have not very long before me now. Today I told him I was leaving 
him for the last time. He mocked in his usual sort of way, but I am 
beyond minding that. He is too much of a coward, I have come to know* 
to prevent my leaving by physical force. I hope to get away tomorrow* 
and am already halfway through my packing, so expect me very soon. 

Your loving 

Rachel. 


My Grandmother spoke in a calm way, much sadder than 
any sobbing or crying. Here for the only time she put 
her handkerchief to her eyes for a moment. “Just at the 
time your dear mother came back to us to die, my little 
boy Christian was dying too. The day after we buried him 
you were born, then seven days later your mother died. Your 
Great-Aunt was a good sister to me, she took turns at sitting 
with your mother every night; saw the friends who called 
and wrote all the letters. Here is a copy of what she wrote 
to your Great-Uncle: 


Northgate House, 

High Street, 
Tawborough. 

March 2nd, 1848. 


Dear Brother, — 

You will be glad of a line to tell you a fine girl was born this morning, 
at half past five; the baby is doing splendidly, but Rachel is very weak. 
Nurse and doctor are in constant attendance. Hannah stays with her 


MARY LEE 


130 

all the time and doesn’t go downstairs. With young Christian just buried 
the Lord is trying us hard. We are truly passing through the waters of 
affliction. Hannah is too busy to write herself or I should not be writ- 
ing to you, the first time I think for nearly thirty years. 

Your affectionate sister, 

Jael Vickary. 

‘“Here is your Great-Uncle’s reply, addressed to me:” 

London. 

In haste. 

Dear Hannah, — 

Do everything possible for dear Rachel as regards nursing and doctors 
that money can command. I pay everything. 

John. 

“And two more letters your Great-Aunt wrote to your Great- 
Uncle will tell how your dear mother died:” 

Northgate House, 

High Street, 
Tawborough. 

March 8th, 1848. 

Dear Brother, — 

I write again to give you news of Rachel. Upon receiving your kind 
note we decided on calling in Doctor Little but I don’t think he can do 
more than Dr. Le Mesurier has, he has been unremitting in attention 
but there will be nothing to regret in having had further advice. Nurse 
Baker looks after the baby, she is a very nice child and is doing well. 
Hannah is wonderfully sustained, she sat with Rachel last night, 1 
was with her the night before. It would make things very much 
easier if Martha would come over from Torribridge but Mr. Greeber, 
her husband, will not allow it, pleading their own child who is as healthy 
as he is ugly and now quite a year old. Rachel has been wandering to- 
day, sewing and arranging garments for the child. She suffers badly. 
The doctor thinks it is peritonitis. I fear it will be but a few days more, 
it wrings my heart to write it. 

I have just taken the liberty of writing a note to Lord Tawborough 
to ask him to use his influence with his cousin that the child may 
remain to be brought up by us in case of Rachel being removed from 
this world. He replies he will insist on it. It has comforted Rachel 
greatly. I wrote to Mr. Traies a few lines on the day she was con- 
fined to state the fact of a girl being bom and that his wife was not 
doing too well, commencing “Dear Sir” (being civil). I am glad it was 
done, although he did not respond; we have done our part and shall 
not write to him again until she ceases to be his wife. Oh brother, 
when I think of how the wretched man has hounded her and brought 
her down in health and strength to an early grave (for the doctor 
says she had not the strength to go through her confinement because 


131 


OLD LETTERS 

of the harass and ill-treatment that preceded) I feel he will have 
a recompense even in this world for his cruelty . . . God’s vengeance 
is sure, and He will avenge. The doctor now says twenty-four hours 
will decide. We give her Valentine’s extract of milk and ice which 
she takes every half hour . . . nothing has been left undone. May 
God bless the means and give us grace to bear His will. 

Regret you are not well enough to travel. If you had been well 
enough to come I need not say that for Hannah’s and Rachel’s sake I 
would have let by gones be by gones, so with our united love, I remain, 

Your affectionate sister, 

Jael Vickary. 


Northgate House, 
High Street, 
Tawborough. 


March 9th, 184& 

Dear Brother, — 

Dear Rachel was unconscious all the night but didn’t seem to suffer. 
She gradually sank and peacefully departed at a quarter past ten. 
I know you will not be able to come to the funeral but we know all 
your love to your beloved niece during her life. Hannah scarcely 
realizes it as yet. Dear Rachel wished the baby to be called Mary. 
She gave a few directions most calmly and quietly, and wished the 
text, if we had cards, to be “Made meet to be partakers of the inheri- 
tance of the Saints in light,” or else “These are they which came out 
of great tribulation.” Hannah is bearing up well, sustained by the 
Lord’s grace. Thy will be done. 

With our united love. 

Your affectionate sister, 

Jael Vickary. 


“And so she died,” concluded my Grandmother, “and left 
you to me.” 

I wanted to hear more. “And the man?” 

“What man?” 

“My — father.” It was one of the hardest things I ever 
did to utter that word. I felt foolish, flushed, and some- 
how wicked. The word was unfamiliar, and it was vile. 

“Well, I wrote him a letter saying I forgave him for every- 
thing—” 

“Forgave him, Grandmother!” I cried. “That was wicked!” 

“I forgave him as I hoped the Lord would too. I just 
told him in the letter about her funeral and how it had passed 
off.” 

“Did he write back?” 

“Yes, and in all his life there was nothing so cruel as 


132 


MARY LEE 


the reply he sent me. Here it is. I know the foreign note- 
paper; for he went abroad straight away to avoid the scandal 
and trouble, though the Saints at Torquay publicly expelled 
him from their Meeting when they knew the facts. Listen: — 

Hotel Meurice, Paris. 

March 31st, 1848. 

Madam , — 

Your letter apprehending me of my late wife’s funeral has been for- 
warded to me. If you imagine this thinly veiled hint that I should 
bear the funeral expenses will succeed, you are singularly mistaken. 
For such a wife, nominally Christian, who deserted her husband, I pro- 
pose to do nothing of the kind. You may sue me at law, of course; but 
pause for a moment: would your dead daughter have wished you to? 

Yours truly, 

Philip A. G. Traies. 

“May God in His mercy forgive him for writing that. It 
took me years to be able to. I have never heard from him 
since. I heard he sold the house in Torquay and lives mostly 
abroad. That, my dearie, is the end of a long story. Always 
love the memory of your dear, good mother and try if you 
can to forgive your father, for whatever he has done, he is 
your father.” 

“I will never forgive him, it would be wrong to forgive 
people who have done things to you like that. Never!” 

“It’s the only true forgiveness, my dear, to forgive those 
who wrong you cruelly.” 

“I shall forgive every one in the world; but him, never.” 

I don’t think these events are told out of their place. It 
was at this stage of my life that all these past doings entered 
my life; it is here they should be told. For me they took 
place now; from now onwards they influenced my life and 
thoughts. Of the impressions I received, pity and love for 
my mother, and hate and loathing for my father ranked 
equally. I thought of her still as an angel, but her eyes 
were sadder. As for him, I vowed to myself that afternoon, 
that some day in some way I would avenge my mother. How 
I kept that vow is another story; till then this resolve had a 
constant place in my life and imagination. It did a good 
deal to embitter a view of the world already gloomy enough 
for ten years old. 


133 


OLD LETTERS 

These were not the only emotions rushing through my neart 
that afternoon. There was admiration and love of my Grand- 
mother; how greatly she had suffered, how little she com- 
plained, how heroically she forgave. There was a new re- 
luctant respect for Aunt Jael; and a quickening affection 
for all who had been good to my mother, chiefly for Great- 
Uncle John, who in two short hours had been transformed 
for me from a shadowy name into a warm and noble reality; 
for others also who took a lesser part, such as the kind people 
where she had been governess and the little boy who loved 
her; for Brother Frean and the sympathetic Saints at Torquay. 
While I sat biting my nails and thinking a hundred new 
things, some kind, some sad, some hideous and bitter, Grand- 
mother was still rummaging among the letters. 

“Why, here’s a bundle of those she wrote when she was at 
Woolthy Hall, in her first happy days there. Listen, my 
dear, I’ll read you the first she wrote:” — 

Woolthy Hall, 

North Devon. 

Friday. 

Dearest Mother, — 

I hope you got my first note saying I had arrived safely. I am very 
happy here, I have a nice little room to myself commanding a lovely 
view of the Park. I went to see Lord Tawborough in his study the same 
night that I arrived, and he was very kind. There will be no invidious 
treatment here, of the kind you hear governesses sometimes have to put 
up with. The work will be pleasant, the little boy took to me at once. 
He has brown eyes and a frank little face, rather solemn for his age, 
indeed I think he likes reading books too much and not too little. The 
meals are of course very good and I never felt better. Yesterday we went 
a carriage drive to Northbury, and picked primroses in the woods there, 
five huge bunches. The spring is a lovely time. It makes me happy 
because it is the beginning of the year and promises so much, just as I 
am at a new beginning of my life here, feeling sure I shall have a very 
happy time. Send the cotton blouses and straw hat, for there’s a fine 
summer ahead! 

With love to Aunt Jael and very much to your dear self from 

Your loving 

Rachel. 

As Grandmother finished reading, I sobbed as though my 
heart would break, for that happy letter was the saddest of 
them all. I have read somewhere that with old letters, the 
happier they are, the more full of hope and life the writers, 


134 


MARY LEE 


the more vivid and intense and joyful the sense of the 
present time the more melancholy they are to read in later 
years. The hopes then so warm and fresh seem now so far 
away. Men and women who when they wrote were hoping 
and planning are now but hollow-eyed and rotting dust. 
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, all is vanity. 


CHAPTER XI : EXTRAORDINARY MEETING FOR 
PRAYER, PRAISE AND PURGING 


For some time all had not been well among the Saints. 
There was evidence of worldliness, backsliding, apostasy and 
sin. The Devil was active in our midst. 

Certain Saints, after tasting for years the privilege of 
fellowship, had left us: for chapel, or church, or nowhere. 
Others were becoming irregular in their attendance or took 
part in our devotions without fervour. There was moral 
backsliding too: chambering and wantonness. Blind Joe 
Packe had been discovered by Brother Quappleworthy in a 
drunken stupor on the floor of the attic in which he lived, 
when the latter was paying him one of his customary visits of 
Bible-reading and exhortation. There walked abroad also a 
vaguer, darker sin than drink that I did not clearly apprehend, 
of which certain of the younger Brothers who were “keeping 
company” with certain of the younger Sisters were whispered 
to be guilty. The most flagrant example, I gathered from a 
shrouded conversation between Grandmother and Aunt Jael, 
was Sister Lucy Fry, who had a baby, but no husband. I 
thought this a curiosity rather than a crime. For whatever 
reason, it aroused a sharp difference of opinion; Aunt Jael 
denounced the awfulness of Lucy’s sin, Grandmother urged 
that she was more sinned against than sinning. 

Then Sister Prideaux had been to some concert or “theatre” 
during a holiday at Exeter. The precise nature of the godless 
entertainment was not ascertained. Nor was it clear how 
the news had reached us, though most thought it was wormed 
out of Sister Quappleworthy by Sister Yeo. The latter openly 
taxed Miss Prideaux with it. 

“So you went to the theayter did you, over to Exeter? Next 
time you’re there I suppose you’ll be a-going to the Cathe- 

driir 

Then there were the parliamentary elections in which some 
of the Saints had been taking an unsaintly interest, voting for 

135 


136 


MARY LEE 

and championing this candidate or that; a form of meddling 
with this world’s affairs which Pentecost regarded with special 
disfavour. Indeed Rumour had it that one or two of the 
younger Brethren took part in the famous polling-day brawl 
in the vegetable market. Several of even the most prominent 
Saints expressed preferences. Brother Browning being a dra- 
per was Radical, Brother Quappleworthy being an intellectual 
was Whig, Brother Briggs being an oilman was Tory. 

Aunt Jael was an unbenevolent neutral. “They’re all much 
of a muchness and none of ’em any good to folk, neither in the 
next world nor in this either. In our family, if we had been 
anything at all, we’d always have been Whig — except the 
child’s mother. She was Tory, or liked to think she was. All 
the gentlefolk belonged to the Tories, and that was always 
enough for Rachel.” 

I was henceforward a fanatical Tory, though I had not the 
dimmest notion what it meant, except that it was somehow con- 
nected with London and the Parliament. Aunt Jael refused 
to explain; Grandmother said it was not worth explaining. 

Brother Brawn related how on the occasion of a visit from 
some canvassers he had struck a blow for righteousness. 
“They knocked at my front door,” he told Aunt Jael, “folk as 
I’d never spoken to avore, nor so much as seen; ‘Good momin’ 
sir,’ said one of them, a tall, thin man with spectacles he was, 
‘whose side are you on? Davie and Potts * I trust.’ ‘No,’ I 
said, ‘I’m on the side of the Laur Jesus Christ,’ and I slammed 
the door in their faces. ’Twas a word in season.” 

About this time there was an epidemic of minor illnesses, 
which Grandmother said could only be the hand of the Lord 
extended in chastisement for sins which the suffering ones had 
committed. More modern folk would have sought explanation 
in low vitality, indoor habits or bad drainage, but point was 
given to my Grandmother’s contention by the fact that Sister 
Prideaux and Lucy Fry, prominent among the sinners, were 
about this time laid low with illness — the latter not unnat- 
urally. Her own attack of bronchitis, she attributed to the sel- 
fish indulgence she had shown of late in perpetually studying 
* Colonel Ferguson-Davie of Credition and Mr. George Potts of Trafal- 
gar Lawn, Tawborough, the two candidates successfully returned for 
the Borough at the Election of 1859. 


PRAYER, PRAISE AND PURGING 137 

her own favourite portions of the Word and neglecting (com- 
paratively) those she favoured less. 

Worst of all, that piece of sugar which for nineteen years — 
the period is always the same in my memory — had been 
placed in our offertory as an insult to the Lord had now for 
two Sundays past become four pieces, one in each of the four 
partitions, a little bit of sugar for Expenses, a little bit of 
sugar for Foreign Field, a little bit of sugar for Ministry, a lit- 
tle bit of sugar for Poor. It had been serious enough years 
ago when the box with the narrow slits had been substituted 
for the bag, and the sinner had merely retaliated by putting a 
small piece through one of the slits instead of a large lump 
down the gaping abyss of the bag. But now — four pieces, one 
in each partition, — what deftness in utter sin! What zeal in 
ill-doing! Who was this wolf in sheep’s clothing, this sinner 
who could sit at the Lord’s table for nineteen years and harden 
his heart Lord’s day after Lord’s day by offering this mockery 
of an oblation to his Saviour? Who was this evil spirit slim- 
fingered enough to perform this fourfold naughtiness, and yet 
remain undetected, unguessed? We all peered at our neigh- 
bours. Brother Brawn even began following the box in its 
voyage round the Meeting, instead of merely handing it to the 
first giver and taking it from the last; for all his spying he 
could find nothing. Was he the man? 

Thus in devious ways was the Devil active in our midst. He 
must be exorcised. 

Sister Yeo’s idea of a Special Extraordinary Meeting to 
chase him out was finally adopted. All the Saints should as- 
semble on a week night to pray for help, and for the discovery, 
confession and true repentance of all the various sinners; to 
purge the repentant of their sins and to praise the Lord for 
pardoning them; to purge the Meeting itself of the stubborn 
and unrepentant — to cast them into the outer darkness. There 
should be weeping and gnashing of teeth. 

A preliminary meeting to decide on procedure and agenda 
was held in our dining-room. The committee which assembled 
was chosen by Aunt Jael and consisted of herself, Grand- 
mother, Pentecost, Brothers Quappleworthy (despite theatre- 
going sister-in-law and known electioneering lapses), Brawn 
and Browning. Also, at Pentecost’s special plea — “ ’Twill 


138 


MARY LEE 

be a sacrifice of self, I know, dear Sister Vickary; that is why I 
urge it” — Sister Yeo was admitted. As soon as all the com- 
mittee had arrived I was bundled out of the room, so I knew 
nothing of what was to happen except what I gathered from 
ear-straining on the staircase, and chance conversation between 
Grandmother and Aunt Jael afterwards. I gathered this 
much: that the Extraordinary Meeting was to be preceded by 
a Tea. 

To this same Tea on a memorable Saturday afternoon we 
proceeded; Grandmother, Aunt Jael, Mrs. Cheese and I. It 
is the only single occasion in my memory when the Saints met 
together for public eating. In nothing did we differ more 
from the general body of nonconformists with their socials, 
bun-fights, f eastings, reunions, conversazioni and congrega- 
tional guzzles. 

The Room presented an unusual sight. There were four 
long trestle tables covered with white cloths and laden with 
food, with forms drawn up beside them. The Saints, dressed 
in their Sunday best, were standing about in groups when we 
arrived. Aunt Jael, puffed with the energies of her walk, sat 
down at once on the end of a bench. Her weight sent the other 
end soaring gaily into the air while she landed on the floor 
with a most notable thud. The form banged back, not into 
position, but with a swirling movement on to a plate of bread 
and butter. 

There is proof of the awful respect in which Aunt Jael 
was held in this: that not a soul dared to smile as she sat 
there on her broad posterior. For a moment or two no one 
even dared to help her to her feet, fearing an outburst, for 
people like Aunt Jael are most dangerous when you try to help 
them out of a predicament. Then by a sudden gregarious 
instinct every one ran forward together, in a sheep-like mass, 
and bore Aunt Jael — red, antagonistic and threatening — to 
her feet. 

After a blessing had been asked by Pentecost, we sat down 
to tea. I recall ham, bath-buns and potted-meat sandwiches. 
After tea the tables were cleared, the trestles packed away and 
the crockery and cutlery, all of which had been lent, were put 
back uncleansed in clothes-baskets in which they had been 
brought by the owners; for the Room possessed no washing- 


PRAYER, PRAISE AND PURGING 139 

up facilities. The forms were then rearranged as for Break- 
ing of Bread. Pentecost sat in his accustomed place at the 
right of the Table as you faced it; we in our usual front 
row; Brother Briggs to the right, Brother Quick to the left, 
Brother Marks, the old Personal Devil of my imagination, far 
away in his goggled corner. In the pulpit or dais, which 
was only used for the evening gospel meeting, were ranged 
Brother Quappleworthy — in the centre, in charge of proceed- 
ings — Brother Brawn on the right and Brother Browning on 
the left. Precedence and position had been arranged at the 
committee meeting in our dining-room, when Brother Quapple- 
worthy had been chosen as chairman. The whole staging was 
as for a meeting in the secular meaning of the word. Indeed 
I remember feeling that the whole affair was a sort of excite- 
ment or entertainment rather than a religious service. This 
feeling vanished like dew with the dawn when Pentecost stood 
up and in a short prayer of exceeding solemnity craved the 
Lord’s blessing on our proceedings. The keynote was SIN, 
its detection, confession, atonement; “and Sin, Lord, is a 
terrible thing.” 

Brother Quappleworthy rose to deal with the business be- 
fore the house. “First now, brethren, there’s the question of 
those Saints who have absented themselves from our — ah — 
mutual ministrations, those backsliders who have left the 
Lord’s table for other so-called Christian bodies or the walks of 
open indifference and — er — infidelity.” Brawn and Brown- 
ing murmured agreement. 

Sister Yeo’s voice rang out accusing and metallic: 
“You’re a fine one, Brother Browning, to um-um-er, and to sit 
in judgment on others. First cast out the beam from thine 
own eye! What of your own wedded wife who goes openly 
to the Bible Christian chapel, and ’as done these fifteen years; 
a source of stumbling and error to all the weaker brethren.” 
(Sensation.) 

“Silence, Sister,” cried Brother Quappleworthy, “none may 
speak here to accuse others, only to accuse self.” 

“True,” murmured the Meeting, and the Chairman resumed 
his discourse. “A list has been — ah — prayerfully prepared 
of all the Saints who have withheld themselves from fellow- 
ship for a space of time. Do all our Brothers and Sisters 


140 MARY LEE 

agree that they be struck off our roll of grace? Shall we 
say ‘Ay’ as we call each name? Brother Mogridge.” 

“Ay,” arose murmurously. 

“Sister Mogridge.” 

“Ay.” 

“Sister Polly Mogridge.” 

“Ay.” 

“Brother Richardson.” 

“Ay.” 

“Sister Petter.” 

This time our tongues (I say “our” because I had joined 
unctuously in the Ay’s) stopped short just in time as we remem- 
bered that Sister Petter was present. We all turned towards 
her. Her hand was over her eyes, and she was weeping. 

“Sister Petter,” called Brother Quappleworthy in a solemn 
voice. “You who scoffed to unbelievers of the ministrations 
of the Saints, You, I say! . . .” 

“Lord forgive me,” she moaned. “Oh Lord forgive me.” 

Pentecost arose with beaming face. “There’s joy in the 
presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.” 
He went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder saying, 
“Sister, be of good cheer, the Lord hath forgiven thy sin.” 

“Amen,” said we all. 

Drink and theatre-going and elections and illnesses were all 
dealt with then in their turn; I remember them hazily. When 
the denouncing voice uttered the name Lucy Fry, I woke up 
into the most wide-awake interest, for a visible hush descended 
on the Meeting. 

Brother Quappleworthy had lost his usual urbanity: “Sin 
of sins, abomination of abominations.” His face was hard 
and fanatical. 

My eyes kept straying to the place where Lucy sat. She was 
a young fresh-faced country girl. Tonight her rosy cheeks 
were pale, her eyes drawn and she sobbed quietly but con- 
tinually as her shame was exposed before us. 

“Sister, repentest thou? Stand up, I say! Repent!” 

It was too much. The poor girl fainted. They bore her 
out insensible. “Her first time out of doors,” I heard it 
whispered, “since the child was born.” 

A feeling of pity was evident among the Saints. Brother 


PRAYER, PRAISE AND PURGING 141 

Quappleworthy realized this and was determined to crush it. 
“Remember, brethren, it is a sin too grave, too vile for God 
to wink at. No dallying with sin! I put it to you that 
Sister Fry be excluded from fellowship. A fleshly sinner 
must not pollute the Lord’s table.” 

“Chase her out, Lord,” cried Brother Brawn, “this adulter- 
ous woman!” 

“No,” said Brother Browning, nervously, bravely. “She 
repents; the Lord will be for mercy.” The three Brothers 
fell to disputing on the dais, and the discussion spread to 
the whole body of the Saints till there was a veritable hubbub 
in the Room. Brother Quappleworthy quelled it by calling 
out in a loud voice: “The Lord will show His will by means 
of a vote. Now those brethren who think it right that Sister 
Lucy Fry, the self-confessed sinner, be excluded from the 
Lord’s table put up their hands.”’ 

Thirty-six hands were counted. 

“Now those brethren who think that she, the sinning woman, 
should remain in fellowship.” 

Twenty hands only were shown. Thus by sixteen votes the 
Lord, who is merciful, voted against poor Lucy. 

Then a surprising thing happened. My Grandmother, for 
the only time in my experience, stood up : “I have one ques- 
tion, brethren. Who is the man?” 

No one had thought of that. No one does. 

There was a whispering. It was confirmed that Lucy’s 
guilty partner — whatever that might mean — was not a Saint 
and that nothing could therefore be done. 

Brother Quappleworthy with sure dramatic instinct had 
reserved till the last the super-sin: Sugar. “This work of 
Satan persevered in over so long a period in a human heart 
. . . For nineteen years . . .” and so on. He wound up by 
conjuring the sinner to confess, to repent ere it was too late. 

There was no response to his appeal, and a flat and rather 
foolish silence ensued. Then Pentecost Dodderidge prayed 
lengthily and earnestly that the sinner might be moved to 
reveal himself. Then another long fruitless silence. 

Pentecost arose again, solemn and determined: “Brethren* 
we must slay the Evil One working in one poor sinner’s heart, 
now, this evening — now or never. No one shall leave this 


142 


MARY LEE 


room until the guilty one has confessed, not if we stay here 
for forty days and forty nights. Let us pray silently that he 
may be moved.” 

A new silence followed, but this time I was somehow expec- 
tant. The minutes, however, dragged on, five, ten, fifteen; I 
watched the crawling clock. Surely it could not last for ever, 
surely the patience of the sinner must be worn out by our 
unending vigil. 

There was a noise of some one moving. Every one opened 
their eyes and looked up. It was only Pentecost Dodderidge 
on his fetet again. “The Lord hath made it plain to me. He 
saith T will send a sign and then the sinner will confess.’ ” 
Hardly had he sat down than there was a great pelting of 
hail on the roof which continued for two or three minutes. 
With the noise no one heard Brother Marks, my spectacled 
Personal Devil, until he stood in front of the Lord’s Table 
facing us all with a countenance of ghost-like white. 

What followed I could never have believed had I not seen 
it with my own eyes. He took a dark blue paper package from 
one pocket and emptied it on one side of the Lord’s Table; 
a shower of sugar came forth: little white lumps, the sort 
with which he had fooled us — preserving sugar the grocers 
call it, the sort with which jam is made. Then he took out 
from his other pocket a little cloth bag and poured out into a 
separate heap on the other side of the Lord’s Table a shining 
heap of golden coins. Then he knelt down in front of us 
all and sobbed and groaned and rocked himself to and fro 
in an extreme agony that was terrible to see. 

No one knew what to do, no one except Pentecost, who went 
up to him and lifted him to his feet; “Jesus forgives thee,” 
he said, “let all of us praise His Holy Name.” 

The whole Meeting sprang to its feet, and burst forth into 
a hymn of praise. A solemn fast was declared for seven 
days, and we sang the Good-night Hymn: 

Good night, dear saints, adieu! adieu! 

Still in God’s way delight; 

May grace and truth abide with you — 

Good night, dear saints, good night. 


PRAYER, PRAISE AND PURGING 

When we ascend to realms above, 

And view the glorious sight, 

We’ll sing of His redeeming love, 

And never say Good night. 

Good night, dear saints, adeiu! adieu! 

Still in God’s way delight; 

May grace and truth abide with you — 

Good night, dear saints, good night. 


CHAPTER XII: THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 


Soon after this, somewhere about my tenth birthday, in the 
early spring of 1858, an important relaxation in my rule of 
life was made. I was allowed, under strict limitations, to go 
out on the Lawn for a certain period every afternoon, and 
to mix with the children there. 

In view of my Great-Aunt’s principle, namely, to make my 
life as harsh and pleasureless as possible, and of my Grand- 
mother’s steadfast prayers and endeavours to keep me pure 
and unspotted from the world, this was a big concession. 
The reason was my health. Grandmother saw that I never 
got out of doors half enough, and that a couple of hours’ 
play with other children in the open air would be likely to 
make me brighter in spirit and to bring colour to my cheeks. 
One Lord’s Day, as we were walking home from Breaking of 
Bread, I overheard Brother Browning: “If you don’t take care 
she will not be long for this world,” — nodding his head 
sadly, sagely and surreptitiously in my direction. Anyway, 
the amazing happened, and with stern negative injunctions 
from Aunt Jael not to abuse the new privilege, nor to play 
“monkey tricks,” for which I should be well “warmed,” and 
with more positive and more terrible instructions from my 
Grandmother to use my opportunity among the other chil- 
dren to “testify to my Lord,” I was launched on the sea of 
secular society, the world of the Great Unsaved. 

Except for what little I saw of them at the Misses Clinkers’ 
I had no acquaintance with other children, nor any knowledge 
of their “play.” While in the obedient orbit of my own 
imagination, I was bold, none bolder, in the situations I 
created, the climaxes I achieved, the high astounding terms 
with which I threatend the attic walls; face to face with 
flesh-and-blood children of my own age, I soon found I was 
shy to a degree, until they were out of my sight, and I was alone 
again, when they joined the ever-lengthening cast of my pup- 
pet show, and, like everybody else, did as they were bid. 

144 


THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 145 

Not that I was shy of grown-ups; it was the fruit of my 
upbringing that I was at ease with any one but my equals. 

It was a horrible ordeal, that first afternoon, when I 
stepped through our garden gate on to the Lawn. I walked 
unsteadily, not daring to look towards the grass slope at the 
higher end, where all the Lawn children were assembled in 
a group. “Waiting for you! Staring at you!” said self- 
consciousness; and fear echoed. I flushed crimson. I was 
half sick with shyness. It seemed to my imagination that 
every child was staring at me with a hundred eyes — they 
knew, they knew! Marcus had heralded the fact, had played 
Baptist to my coming — they were all assembled here to stare, 
to flout, to mock. How I wished the earth would open and 
swallow me up or that the Lord would carry me away in 
a great cloud to Heaven. I dared not fly back into our gar- 
den: that way lay eternal derision. Yet my legs would not 
carry me forward to the group of children who stood there 
staring at me without mercy, without pity, with the callous 
fixity of stars. I was filled with blind confusion, and prayed 
feverishly for a miraculous escape. 

Miracle, in the body of Marcus, saved me. He came for- 
ward from the group. 

“Hello, Mary Lee, we’ve been talking about you.” (Of 
course they had.) “I’ve told everybody you’re allowed to 
play on the Lawn now, but we don’t know which League you 
ought to belong to.” 

“What do you mean? What’s a League?” 

“Well, all Lawn children are in two sides for games and 
everything. Leagues means that. If your father and mother 
go to Church, you belong to the Church League, if they go 
to Chapel, you belong to the Chapel League.” 

“I see.” Secular distinction based on religious ones was 
a principle I understood. 

“Yes, hut you’re not one or the other. Brethren aren’t 
Church, are they? And they aren’t really Chapel.” 

“You’re a Brethren too.” 

“Not like you are. Mother goes to the Bible Christian 
Chapel, and father really belongs there too, for all he goes 
to your meeting. So I count as Chapel.” 

“What do Papists count as?” 


146 


MARY LEE 


“There aren’t any. If there were any and if they were 
allowed to go about, they’d be like you, neither one thing 
nor the other.” 

“Like me indeed! Papists like Brethren! Saints like 
sinners!” 

“Not really, not like that; Brethren are more like Chapel, 
I know. Besides / want you to belong to our League, but 
— Joe Jones says you’re not to. There’s a meeting about it 
tomorrow. All our rules and sports and everything are de- 
cided at the meeting we have — not like Brethren meetings — 
usually up at the top of the bank, near the big poplar. Joe 
Jones sits on the wall, and he’s our president. I’ll let you 
know what happens about you afterwards. Till then I don’t 
think you’d better play with us. I don’t mind, but the others 
say you’d better not. If Joe Jones caught you! I don’t like 
Joe Jones, — don’t you ever whisper that, it’s a terrible secret — 
but he doesn’t like you, and he’s the top dog.” 

Joe Jones, topmost of dogs, Autocrat of the Lawn, pimpled 
despot against whose evil pleasure little could prevail, was 
a good deal older than the rest of the chidren, by whom he 
was obeyed and feared. From what Marcus said his heavy 
hand was against me from the start. I knew why. He lived 
next door to us at Number Six, with an invalid, widowed 
mother (whom I had only seen once or twice in my life, as 
she was kept indoors by some mysterious infirmity which 
some described as grief and others drink) and his sister Lena, 
a big freckled flaxen girl about a year younger than himself. 
We rarely saw any of the three, and our household of course 
had nothing to do with theirs (Church of England, strict). 
But one morning as I was walking up the Lawn path on my 
way from school, Lena had called out to me over the privet 
hedge. 

“Hello, you!” — and then something else, including a word 
I did not know, though instinct told me it was bad. The 
obscenity of the traditional filth words lies as much in their 
sound as in their signification. She repeated the words sev- 
eral times, combining artistic pleasure of mouthing the abom- 
ination with sheer joy of wickedness in shocking me and 
staining my imagination. 

I went straight indoors and appealed to the dictionary. 


THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 147 

No help there; Lena Jones had wider verbal resources than 
Doctor Johnson. Grandmother would be sure to know. I 
went to that dear blameless old soul with the foul word on 
my lips. 

“What does mean?” 

“Nothing good, my dear,” she replied calmly, impertur- 
bably, without a trace of the flush that would have appeared in 
the cheeks of ninety-nine parents out of a hundred. “Nothing 
good, my dear. Where did you hear it?” 

“Lena Jones — just now.” 

Grandmother walked out of the house and rang the next- 
door bell. What passed between her and the grief- (or 
gin-) stricken Mrs. Jones I do not know T , but the results 
were, first, that Lena was sent away to a boarding-school, where 
I have no doubt she added suitably to the virgin vocabulary 
of her companions; second, that Joe, taking up the cudgels 
for his sister’s honour, became suddenly and most unfavour- 
ably aware of my existence. He would threaten me if I 
passed him on my way to school, when I would cower to 
Marcus for protection.. Once he chased me with a cricket 
bat. And now that at last I was near to gaining the status 
of “one of the Lawn children,” he was going to revenge him- 
self by standing in my way. With the Lawn community a 
word from Joe Jones could make or mar. If he forbade the 
others to speak to me, they would not dare to; if he ordered 
them to persecute or tease me, they would obey. He was the 
typical bully ruling with the rod of fear by the right of size. 
He was the typical plague-spot too, polluting the whole life 
of the little community. 

For the Lawn was, in the true sense, a community. The 
well-defined bournes that were set to the oblong patch of 
greensward — the steep, poplar-crowned grass bank at one end, 
surmounted by a wall over which you looked down into a 
back lane and a stable some twenty feet below you; at the 
opposite end that marched with the street the high brick wall 
with one ceremonious gate in the middle for only egress to 
the outside world; then the two rows of houses the full 
length of both sides — gave to it a separate and self-contained 
character; the charm and magical selfishness of an island. 
All the children who lived in the Lawn houses played there. 


148 MARY LEE 

and played nowhere else. Though divided into two mutually 
hostile leagues, they felt themselves to be one blood and one 
people as against the strange world without the gates. Of 
this community Joe Jones was the uncrowned King. Like 
the early Teutonic monarchs he was limited in power by the 
folk-moot, or primitive parliament of all his subjects. Ques- 
tions of Lawn politics were decided at democratic meetings 
under the poplars at the top of the grass bank. There were 
equal suffrage, decisions by majorities, and the feminine vote. 
Unfortunately Joe Jones had the casting vote, and as there 
prevailed the show-of-hands instead of the secret ballot, a 
look from his awful eye influenced a good many other votes 
as well. In short, the Lawn, like all other democracies, was, 
as wise old Aristotle saw, always near the verge of tyramiy. 
At the tribal meetings were discussed and decided sports and 
competitions, penalties and punishments, ostracisms and 
taboos; unpopular proposals were consigned to Limbo, un- 
popular persons to Coventry. In all doings that allowed of 
“sides” — cricket, nuts-in-May, most ball games, tug of war, 
tick. Red Indians, clumps (what were they, these mysteries?) 
— the two leagues, Marcus toM me, were arrayed in battle 
against each other. 

The Church League was of course led by Joe Jones, 
seconded, until her departure for wider spheres of maleficence, 
by his devoted sister Lena. Then there were Kitty and Molly 
Prince, also fatherless. Their late parent was a “Rural 
Dean,” and they were thus our social elite (Mr. Jones, 
Senior, had been a mere butcher; — nay, pork-butcher even, 
said the slanderers, with a fine feeling for social shades). 
Kitty and Molly were dull, stupid girls. Molly was as sal- 
low as a dried apple; Kitty lisped; they were always dressed 
in brown, with large brown velvet bows in their hats. There 
was a dim George Smith; a loud-voiced Ted King, Joe Jones’ 
principal ally, with his two sisters Cissie and Trixie. I hate 
them vaguely to this day, that silly giggling pair with their 
silly giggling names. I do not forget or forgive that they 
wore nice clothes, and mocked cruelly at mine. About this 
time, Aunt Jael had my hair shorn — it was my one good 
feature, and Aunt Jael knew that I knew it, and decreed that 
I must “mortify the flesh” accordingly — and sent me out into 


THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 149 

a mocking world in school and Lawn, with my face full of 
shame and my hair clipped to the head like a boy’s. How 
those King girls sneered and giggled, and how I loathed them. 
Finally there was little John Blackmore, of whom it was 
whispered abroad that “his father died before he was born.” 
The import of this fact was dimly apprehended, but Lawn 
opinion was unanimous in regarding it as something unique 
and special, something sufficient to endow little Johnny Black- 
more with an air of quite exotic velvet-trousered mystery. 
He was a gentle, dark-eyed, olive-skinned child, and the 
only member of the Establishment party I could abide. He 
shared the fatherlessness which was common to his League — 
the Kings were an exception — and which probably accounted 
for their eminence in ill-behaviour. Another coincidence was 
that all the members of the Church League, except George 
Smith, lived on our side of the Lawn, i. e. the same side 
as my Grandmother’s house. In defiance of Number Eight, 
Fort of Plymouth, halting-place for heaven, they called it “the 
Church side!” 

The leader of the Chapel League was Laurie Prideaux, 
whose father kept the big grocer’s shop in High Street; 
a tall, pretty, picture-book boy with golden curls, a Wesleyan 
Methodist, and I think the nicest of all the Lawn children, 
with whom his influence was second to Joe Jones’ only, and 
for good instead of evil. The power of one was because he 
was liked, of the other because he was feared: those two forms 
of power that hold sway everywhere — Aunt Jael and Grand- 
mother, Old Testament God and New Testament Christ; fear 
and love. If there was any weeping, Laurie was there to 
comfort it; any injustice, Laurie would champion it. Against 
Joe Jones he was my rod and my staff. His second-in-com- 
mand was Marcus, Marcus who hovered on the marge between 
Bible Christianhood, which qualified him for admission to 
the Lawn, and Plymouth Brethrenism, which qualified him 
for admission to Heaven only. He was a nice boy, Marcus, 
for all the uncertainty of his theological position, and I 
remember him as one of the few bright faces of my early life. 
The strength of Lawn Dissent lay in the unnumbered Boldero 
family, a seething brood of Congregationalists, who lived over 
the way in the corner house opposite Number Eight. Only five 


150 


MARY LEE 


of them were of appropriate age to possess present member- 
ship of the Lawn — Sam, Dora, Daisy, Bill and Zoe — but on ei- 
ther side of the five stretched fading vistas of babes and grown- 
ups. Dora was clever, Daisy good-natured, fat, dull and bow- 
legged, Zoe fat only, Sam and Bill rough, stupid and friendly. 
Finally there were Cyril and Eva Tompkins — twins; Baptists: 
a spiteful couple who vied with the Kings in mocking me. 

To sum up. On the whole, despite Joe Jones, the boys were 
kinder than the girls; a first impression which life, in the lump, 
has borne out; and on the whole, despite the Tompkinses, the 
Chapel League was the nicer of the two; the brainier also, de- 
spite the Boldero boys, and Johnny Blackmore, who was the 
shining intellect of the Establishment. Though I have no 
longer the faintest hostility to the Anglican Communion, I find 
inside me a dim ineradicable notion of some moral superiority, 
some higher worth, however slight, which I concede to the Non- 
conformists; and I trace it back to my first experience of the 
two. If I bow my head in reverent humility before the Dis- 
senters of England, I know that the real reason is because 
Laurie and Marcus and the happy Bolderos were such, while 
Joe and Lena and the Kings and the Princes — Beware of Kings! 
Put not your trust in Princes! — were not. 

Church League and Chapel League, and I could belong to 
neither! My first feeling should have been sorrow that among 
that score of young souls there was not one single sure inheritor 
of glory; I fear it was pride instead; in my heart I rejoiced as 
the Pharisee, that I was not as other children, and that in me 
alone had the light shined forth. Yet at the same moment, 
parallel but contradictory, I found this question in my heart: 
why am I not as other children? Why cannot I mix with them 
as one of them, and belong to their Leagues and joys? After 
all, my right to belong to the Church League was about as good 
as Marcus’ Chapel pretensions : had not Grandmother and Aunt 
Jael both been Churchwomen once? Or again, if Marcus, who 
was at least half a Saint, was allowed to belong to the Chapel 
League, then why not I, who was only half a Saint more? I 
had for a moment a rebellious notion of forming a new League 
of my own, a Saints’ League, a Plymouth League, a League of 
the Elect; but reflection soon showed me that one member was 
barely enough. Could I convert others though? The notion 


151 


THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 

warmed my heart, the more luxuriously because though at root 
ambitious, it seemed so virtuous and noble. Missionary zeal 
would further personal ambition. In testifying to the Lord, 
I would raise up unto Him followers who should be my fol- 
lowers too ; forming at one and the same time the Lord’s League 
and my League. There burned together in me for a queer ex- 
alted moment the red flame of ambition and the pure white fire 
of faith; burning together in Mary as in Mahomet; as in the 
souls of the great captains of religion. The fires died down; 
till there burned within me just the candle flicker of this 
humble hope: that the morrow’s meeting would suffer me to 
join the Lawn at all, as the lowliest novice in whichever League 
would take me. 

Next day after tea, I watched from afar the deliberations of 
the assembly that was handling my fate. 

Some one shouted my name; I approached and appeared be- 
fore the tribe. On the wall that surmounted the mound of jus- 
tice sat Joseph Jones, surrounded by his earls and churls. I 
observed his pimples, his ginger hair, his fish-like bulging eyes. 

“Come here. Stand straight. Look at me.” 

I obeyed. He faced me. The tribe surrounded me. 

“Your name?” 

“Mary I^ee.” 

“You’re allowed now to come out and play on the Lawn?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can’t just play and do as you like, you know. There 
are Laws of the Lawn. And there are two Leagues, and you 
must belong to one of them.” 

This sounded encouraging; he was not going to stand in my 
way after all. 

“I know,” I said. “Which shall I belong to?” 

“We’ll see. Let me see, which are you, Church or Chapel?” 
He was too dull to conceal the wolf in the sheep-like blandness 
of his voice. Well, I would fight for my footing. 

“Neither. You know that.” 

“Neither?” incredulously. “How do you mean?” 

“I belong to the Brethren, the Saints. That’s neither Church 
nor Chapel.” 

“Well then, you can’t belong to the Church League or the 
Chapel League, can you, if you aren’t either? Of course you 


152 MARY LEE 

can’t. We’re sorry, but you can’t belong to the Lawn at all. 
Still” (generously) “we’ll let you walk about.” He dismissed 
me with a nod, I did not move. 

“But—” 

“Now shut up. No damned chatter. You should belong to 
a decent religion.” 

“It is a decent religion,” I cried. “Don’t you talk so; it is 
my Grandmother’s. ’Tis as good as any of yours, and a lot bet- 
ter. And ’tis not a good enough reason for keeping me out.” 

The Lord of the Lawn was not accustomed to being addressed 
thus. He darkened — or rather flushed; gingerheads cannot 
darken. 

“If you want another reason, ’tis because you are a dirty lit- 
tle tell-tale sneak.” 

“Hear, hear! Sneak, Sneak!” Chorus of Kings and 
Princes. 

“I’m not a sneak. I’m not a sneak, and I don’t want to be- 
long to your miserable Lawn. I’m a Saint anyway, and better 
than you churches and chapels.” 

I turned and moved away. “Saint, Saint, look at the Saint! 
The sneaking Saint, the saintly sneak. The Brethering kid. 
Plymouth Brethering, good old Plymouth Rocks. Three cheers 
for the Plymouth Rocks!” Church and Dissent mingled in 
this hostile chorus that pursued me to our gate. 

“Look at the corduroy skirt, he, he, he! — just like work- 
man’s trousers,” was, the last thing I heard. My cheeks burned 
with rage and shame. 

I ran up to the attic to sob and mope in peace. I was Hagar 
once again, turned out into the wilderness alone. Every child’s 
hand was against me. I sobbed away, until at last the luxury 
of extreme grief brought its comfort. Mine was the chief sor- 
row under the heavens, it was unique in its injustice; I was the 
unhappiest little girl in all the world. I regained a measure 
of happiness. 

After this experience, I went out on to the Lawn as little as 
possible; which achieved the result of Aunt Jael driving me 
there. 

I could take no part in games, but after a while I became a 
kind of furtive hanger-on in the outskirts at the frequent “Meet- 
ings” of the Lawn, at which the division into Leagues did not 


153 


THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 

usually persist. I only dared approach the company when 
Joe Jones was absent, which, however, inclined to be more and 
more usual as he became absorbed in gay adult adventures in 
the world outside the Lawn gates. The moment Joe was gone, 
and Laurie Prideaux had stepped without question into the 
shoes of leadership, the bullies who, under Joe’s encouraging 
eye, would have driven me off, were silent and left me alone, 
obeying with slavish care the whim of the new Autocrat. So I 
stood away, just a little outside the ring of children, and lis- 
tened. 

Under Laurie’s influence, the meetings were more concerned 
with affairs of universal moment and abstract truth than with 
the intrigues and vendettas so dear to Joseph Jones. Is the 
moon bigger than the sun? How far away are the stars? 
Does it really hurt the jelly-fish like the big yellow ones you 
see at Ilfracombe and Croyde, if you cut them in two with 
your spade? Do fish feel pain? Is the donkey the same as an 
ass, or is ass the female of donkey? What is the earliest date 
in the year you can have raspberries in the garden, or thrush’s 
— or black-bird’s — or cuckoo’s eggs out in the country? What 
is the farthest a cricket-ball has ever been thrown? and will 
there be a war between England and the French Empire? 
With anv insoluble question, i. e. a question to which nobody 
brought an answer which the meeting regarded as final, the 
procedure adopted was for every one present to refer it to his 
or her father or mother, and to report the result at the next 
meeting. Much valuable information was gleaned by this 
means. The final decision was by a majority of votes. Then 
if five parents said the moon was bigger than the sun, and only 
four that the sun was bigger than the moon, then the moon 
was bigger than the sun. Voting was by parents. Thus 
the Bolderos counted as one vote only; which was not unjust, 
for the brood, who were inclined, under Dora’s orders, to 
stand or fall together, would otherwise have swamped the 
meetings; as indeed they frequently did when the question was 
not one which had been referred back to parental omniscience. 

One day the supreme problem was raised. Joe Jones was 
not present, but perhaps he had inspired the discussion. It 
came breathlessly, with the swift tornado-strength of great 
ideas. Every one of us knew at once that we were face to face 


154 


MARY LEE 


with something bigger than we had ever encountered before. 
Into our camp of innocence it fell like a bursting bombshell, 
scattering wonder in all directions. Of the innocence I feel 
pretty sure; I do not believe a single child knew. 

“They are born , of course,” said one, sagely. 

“Yes; but how?” 

“Storks bring them,” said little Ethel Prideaux. “On my 
panorama, there is a picture of a big white stork carrying a 
baby in its beak, and it puts it down the chimney.” 

“Where does it get it?” objected Marcus. “Besides storks 
are only in Holland and places abroad; there aren’t any left in 
England, and there are babies in England just the same.” 

“I think it has something to do with gooseberry bushes,” said 
Trixie King. “I overheard my Auntie saying so.” 

“Well, we have nothing but flowers in our garden,” said Billy 
Boldero, “and there are twelve in our family, and no goose- 
berry bushes.” 

“It is neither storks nor gooseberries,” said Dora Boldero, 
aged thirteen, importantly. “These are only fairy tales for 
children. The real reason” (she lowered her voice impres- 
sively) “is this. Doctors bring them. Whenever we have a 
baby born” (at least an annual event in the Boldero menage) 
“the doctor comes. He always brings with him a Black Bag. 
That's it!” (Sensation.) 

Marcus was the first to recover. Even Black Bag was in- 
adequate as First Cause. 

“Yes, but where does he get the baby first, before he puts it 
in the bag to bring? He must get it somewhere.” 

“From the gooseberry bush, of course,” said Trixie King, in 
a bold effort to recover her position. “I expect there is a 
special garden behind doctors’ houses where they grow.” 

“But if there isn’t?” objected Marcus pitilessly. “Doctor Le 
Mesurier has no garden at all, neither has Doctor Hale.” 

“No,” said Laurie Prideaux. “And I don’t believe the Black 
Bag story one bit. Because if it were that, the doctor could 
take the bag anywhere, and give whoever he liked a baby, 
just whenever he liked. And he can’t, I know. Anybody can’t 
have a baby just when they like. Mother says Mrs. Pile at 
Number Three has wanted one for years. Besides, any one 
can’t have one. Only mothers have babies.” 


THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 


155 


“And fathers,” said some one. 

“Fathers and mothers together; there must be both. At 
least there always is both.” 

“Except — ” We all looked awkwardly at Johnny Black- 
more, the posthumous one. He flushed slightly under his 
olive skin. 

“No, I had a father too; he was my father, though he died 
before I was born.” 

“Well, if your father can die before you are born, what 
makes him your father? What does ‘being your father’ 
mean?” We were getting to fundamentals. 

“Can a mother die too before her baby is born?” 

Nobody could answer this. Somehow it seemed more im- 
probable. Besides, we had no motherless counterpart of 
Jonny Blackmore to support the notion. 

“Whether they die or whether they don’t,” said Laurie, 
summing up, “all that we’ve found out so far is that there 
must be a father and there must be a mother; a gentleman 
and a lady, that is, who are married. They must be married.” 

“No, they needn’t be,” I cried eagerly. “Sister Lucy Fry 
at our Meeting is not married, and she has a baby four months 
old!” 

The sensational character of my information allowed my first 
utterance in a Lawn assembly to pass unreproved. There was 
an impressed silence. Everybody waited for more. 

“It is not often, I don’t think,” I went on. “It was a mis- 
take of some kind, and a sin too. Much prayer was offered 
up, and Aunt Jael nearly had her turned out of fellowship. 
It is wrong to have a baby if you are not married. Wrong, but 
not impossible.” 

“That’s important,” said Marcus, “but we’ve really found 
nothing out. How are they made? What makes them come?” 

“The Lord,” said I, sententiously. This was a falling off. 

“I know. But how?” 

Marcus was final. “This is a thing that has got to be asked 
at home. Tomorrow evening at half-past-five you will all 
report what you have found out. It is a thing we ought to 
know. We shall have to have children ourselves one day.” 

“I don’t like to athk,” simpered Kitty Prince. “Mother’d 
not like me to I’m thure.” 


156 MARY LEE 

Perhaps she really knew, though more likely vague instinct 
coloured her reluctance. 

It was a reluctance I did not share. The meeting was about 
to disperse, and I was resolving in my mind the words I 
should use when asking my Grandmother, wondering what her 
answer might be, when “There’s Joe coming in at the gate,” was 
shouted, “let’s ask him.” 

We crowded round him as he approached. 

“Well, what is it, kids?” he said, in his royal cocksure 
way. 

Laurie told him. He smiled: an evil important smile. 

“And nobody knows anything,” concluded Laurie. 

“Don’t they?” leered Joe, looking around to see that all 
the Lawn children were listening, and no one else. “Don’t 
they. I know.” 

He told us* He told us with a detail that left no room 
for doubt and a foulness that smote our cheeks with shame. 

“It is not true.” I kept whispering to myself. My cheeks 
burned, and I was shaking all over. Against myself, I believed 
him. It was horrible enough to be true. 

He gave us fatherhood as it appeared to him. When he 
came to the mother’s sacrifice of pain, and desecrated it with 
filthy leering words, I could bear it no longer, and eluding 
all attempts to stop me, I fled wildly into the house, and up- 
stairs to my Grandmother. 

She looked up from the Word, surprised in her calm fash- 
ion. 

“What is it, my dear?” 

I told her. “0 Grandmother, it is not as cruel as that, 
is it? It is not true? Tell me it is not true!” 

“It is true, my dear.” 

“And does it hurt like that?” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“Why — why isn’t there some easier way? So horrible the 
first part, and then so cruel. It is wrong.” 

“It’s the Lord’s will, my dear. It always has been and always 
will be. Meanwhile, you are not to go on the Lawn again 
till I have spoken to your Aunt. I must seek the Lord’s 
guidance. Leave me to lay it before Him.” 

The look on Aunt Jael’s face at supper-time soon ban- 


THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 


157 


ished the far terrors of motherhood: Grandmother had clearly 
told her all. It was unjust, of course: it was nt> crime on 
my part to have heard something — and something true — to 
which I could not help listening, which I had not sought to 
hear, and which terrified me now that I had heard it. It 
was unjust that she was angry. But there ’twas. 

All through supper she said nothing. I feared to receive 
her wrath, yet I could not bear that visit should be delayed 
till the morrow, which would mean a sleepless night of vis- 
ualizing. As we rose from our knees after evening worship, 
Aunt Jael turned a grim eye on me and spoke. 

“I shall write to Simeon Greeber tomorrow.” 


CHAPTER XIII: I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 


I knew what that meant. It had been hinted at on several 
occasions since the birthday party. I was to go to Torri- 
bridge to live with Uncle Simeon. 

I disliked Uncle Simeon, and did not want to leave my 
Grandmother. On the other hand I longed to see the world, 
and to get away from Aunt Jael. I must show her how 
glad I was at the prospect. 

“You mean you’re going to write to him about my going 
to live there?” 

I said it in a cool pleased fashion, then at once regretted 
I had done so, for I knew Aunt Jael well enough to see 
that the pain the punishment she proposed would cause me 
was a more important thing than saving me from baneful 
Lawn influence; if I showed her too plainly I was glad to go 
to Torribridge, which on the whole I fancied I was, she 
might cancel the plan without more ado. 

So I repeated: “You mean you’re going to write to him 
about my going to live there?” — but this time my voice had 
a note of mournfulness; Aunt Jael sat up and stared. She 
failed to see through me, however; could not probe the depths 
of my cunning, as I the depths of her ill-will. 

Grandmother comforted me: “’Twill be a change, my dear. 
Your Aunt and I think ’twill be a good and useful change 
for you. Your Aunt Martha will teach you many new things. 
Don’t ’ee be tearful, my child: the Lord will watch over you.” 

Two days later Uncle Simeon arrived to take me. Pasty 
faced, white-livered, cringing little wretch, with his honeyed 
smile and honey-coloured hair. He sniffed as always. 

“Good day, dear Miss Vickary. Good morning, dear Mrs. 
Lee. You too, dear little one. One is well pleased to see 
all one’s kinsfolk looking so well in mind and body, well 
pleased indeed! One scarce knows how to express oneself. 
But one can give thanks, ah yes, one can give thanks.” 

We sat down to dinner. Food punctuated but did not 
158 


I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 159 

check his flow of eloquence. He got the food on to his fork, 
but did not lift it. Instead he ducked his head and snatched, 
tearing the food from the fork as a wolf warm flesh from a 
bone. His eyes glistened as Mrs. Cheese placed a steaming 
mutton-pie before Aunt Jael. 

“Your daughter, dear Mrs. Lee? Yes, dear Martha was 
well, when one left her this morning, and — D. V. — still is. 
She sends her fond greeting to you both. One took leave 
of her with a heavy heart, though ’tis only for a day, for 
one’s love is so jealous, one’s absences so rare. One took the 
eleven o’clock railway-train from Torribridge. . . . There 
were two ladies in the compartment with one. One was glad, 
ay glad indeed, to observe that ere the train started, they 
both whipped out their Bibles. One entered into earnest con- 
versation with them. One was overjoyed, if surprised, to find 
that, although they were Baptists, they were good Christians.” 

“There are many such,” interposed my Grandmother. 
“Don’t ’ee be narrow, Simeon Greeber.” 

“Maybe, maybe, dear Mrs. Lee. God gives grace in un- 
likely places. Be that as it may, however, at Instow both 
ladies got out, and a gentleman entered the carriage, a man 
of means from his appearance, one would say. One remem- 
bered that he was but a sinner. One remembered the 
heavenly injunction: In season and out of season. One spoke 
a quiet word to him as to the Gospel plan. One was polite, if 
earnest. Alas, the poor sinner answered roughly. The Devil 
spoke in him. He used an evil word one’s modesty forbids 
one to repeat. But in the Lord’s service one must endure much. 
One suffered, but one forgave. Tonight he will be remem- 
bered in one’s prayers. One was pained, hurt, wounded, 
grieved — but angry, — no! Anger is not the sin which doth 
most easily beset one.” (What was? I wondered. Gluttony 
perhaps, I thought, as I watched his staccato snatches at a big 
second helping of the mutton-pie.) “One looked again at the 
face of the handsome sinner opposite. A voice spoke within 
one: ‘Be not weary in well doing,’ but a second effort at godly 
conversation yielded, alas, no better result. One had done 
one’s duty, and for the rest of the journey one reflected on the 
different Eternities facing the poor sinner’s soul and one’s own. 
The railway train reached Tawborough in the Lord’s good 


160 


MARY LEE 

time, and here one is, rejoiced to see all one’s dear relatives 
. . . rejoiced indeed. . . 

The moment Mrs. Cheese had cleared away the table-cloth, 
Aunt Jael was curt: “To business, to business!” And to me, 
“You’re not wanted. Make yourself scarce.” 

I went upstairs to the spare bedroom, meaning to sit on a 
settee by the window and daydream away the time. I opened 
the window. The dining-room downstairs must have been 
open too, for I could hear Aunt Jael’s voice booming away. 
“Eight shillings” and “Child” I heard. I should never have 
tried to overhear, but now I found I could hear without trying 
- — by the window here, whither I had come quite by accident. 
I could not help hearing if I tried — perhaps I had been led to 
the window-seat by the Lord, perhaps it was providential, per- 
haps I ought to listen. Besides, Mrs. Cheese did it: I caught 
her red-handed listening outside the door one day when Aunt 
Jael and Grandmother were discussing a rise in her wages. 
And eavesdropping was not a sin. There was no command- 
ment, “Thou shalt not eavesdrop” — Our Lord had never for- 
bidden it — there was nothing in the Word against it. And 
what harm would be done? As they were discussing my fu- 
ture, I should know soon enough in any case what they decided, 
so why not know at once? ... No deceivers in the world 
are so easily deceived as self-deceivers. I leaned right out of 
the window. 

“Agreed then, Simeon Greeber. You will take her for 
twelve months, treat her as your own boy, and have the same 
lessons taught her by Martha. And eight shillings a week for 
the board.” 

“Eight shillings?” queried a treacly voice, yet pained as well 
as treacly. “ Eight shillings?” It is impossible to describe 
the sweet sad stress he laid on the numeral, or the wealth of 
poignant sentiment that stress conveyed. Not of greed or 
graspingness, oh dear no! Rather of pained sorrow at the 
greed and graspingness of Aunt Jael. “Eight? One fears 
’twill be difficult. If it were nine, one might hope, one might 
struggle, one might endeavour — ” 

“Stuff and nonsense. A child of nine years old, eating lit- 
tle; and your table don’t groan with good things. Eight is 


I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 161 

enough and to spare. Not one ha’penny-piece more. Yea or 
nay?” 

A pause, ere Christian meekness gave in to unchristian 
ultimatum. 

“Well then, dear Miss Vickary, one will try, one will 
hope — ” 

“Call the child,” she cut him short. 

I fled from the window guiltily. “Yes, Grandmother, 
I’m coming,” I called back. 

Uncle Simeon stayed the night: my last at Tawborough. 
Grandmother was kind. I did not know how I loved her till I 
felt I was going to lose her. This was my first big step in life. 
I was losing my old moorings, and sailing off to a new world. 
My mouth was dry, as it is when the heart is sick and apprehen- 
sive. Aunt Jael was adamant against my spending even oc- 
casional Lord’s Days at Tawborough. I was to visit Bear 
Lawn but once during the year, though ’twas but nine miles 
away. There was no appeal against this: Aunt Jael had 
decided it. 

Grandmother came to my bedroom. We read the twenty- 
third psalm together. Then she prayed for me, and we sang 
an old hymn together. At “Good-night, my dearie” I clung to 
her more than usual. 

“There’s only you in the world that really likes me.” 

“No, my dear, there is your good aunt. And there is God. 
Don’t ’ee say nobody loves you when He is there. Don’t ’ee 
think all the time of yourself. Think of making others happy. 
There’ll be your little cousin Albert to befriend. Your Aunt 
Martha is kind, and will treat you well. That is why I’m let- 
ting ’ee go. Your Uncle Simeon too — ” 

“ He’s not kind,” daringly. 

“Hush, my dear, don’t ’ee say so. He’s a godly man, and 
fears the Lord exceedingly. He will treat you in a Christian 
way. And God will always be near you. Pray to Him every 
night, read in His word, sing to Him a joyful song of praise. 
Never forget that threefold duty and joy. Never forget, my 
dear. You will promise your Grandmother?” 

“Yes, Grandmother, but ’twill he lonely.” 

“Your mother — my little Rachel — had worse trials than 


MARY LEE 


162 

you, please God, will ever know; yet she praised God always. 
Will you be brave like her?” 

“Yes, Grandmother,” huskily, and I kissed her twice. 

Next day, after an early dinner, we left Bear Lawn. I had 
a grim godspeed from the old armchair. 

“No highty-tighty, no monkey tricks, no stubborn ways. 
Fear the Lord at all times,” — and a swift formal peck which 
was not swift enough to conceal perhaps a faint tinge of regret. 

We left by rail. Uncle Simeon read his Bible the whole 
way to Torribridge, and never spoke a word. It was only my 
second journey by railway, and I had enough to interest me in 
looking out of the window. The country-side was bright with 
spring. Little did I foresee the different circumstances of my 
return journey. 

I well remember our arrival. There was a tea-supper on the 
table, so meagre that my heart sank at the outset. There was 
my Aunt Martha. She seemed like a weak tired edition of 
my Grandmother. She looked miserable and underfed; I 
soon came to know that she was both. I regarded Albert, a 
dull heavy-faced boy with a big mouth and thick lips. 

The latter soon opened. “Don’t stare, you! Father, she’s 
staring at me.” 

“It’s not true. I’m not staring. I was just looking at him.” 

“Come, there, no answerings back in this house, learn that 
once for all.” There was still a good deal of honey about 
Uncle Simeon’s still small voice, but it was flavoured with 
aloes now and other bitter things, whose presence he had kept 
hidden at Bear Lawn. The honeyed whine was now very near 
a snarl, as he showed his shiny white teeth and repeated, “Once 
for all.” The Tawborough mask was being put aside already. 

A clock outside struck the hour. I looked at the time-piece, 
which registered eight o’clock. So did he. 

“She knows her bedroom, Martha? Yes. At eight she 
goes to bed, and eight in the morning we take our humble 
breakfast. Come now, to bed!” 

I was faced with the Good-night difficulty. Albert I ig- 
nored, and he me. Aunt Martha was plain sailing. She 
looked kind, if weak and blurred. We kissed each other list- 
lessly on the cheek. But from Uncle Simeon I shrank in- 


163 


I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 

stinctively as I came near him. He saw my feelings, I 
saw he hated me for them, he saw that I felt his hate. That 
refusal to kiss was a silent declaration of inevitable war. 

He took the offensive that very night, as the clock hands 
showed next morning. 

I went upstairs with my candle, and sat down on a chair 
in the middle of the room. There was an unused smell about 
everything which seemed to add to my homesickness and 
sense of lost bearings. Bear Lawn had never been a gay and 
festive place, but it was home, and here in the dreary room 
the first-night-away-from-home feeling overcame me badly with 
all its disconsolate accompaniments of damp eyes and dry 
throat. The old injustice burned in my heart, the old bitter- 
ness came back. Why had I had to leave my Grandmother, 
the only one in the world who cared for me? Why was there 
nobody who loved me even more than that, in whose bosom 
I could hide my face and cry, whose love to me was wonder- 
ful? Why had the Lord left me no Mother who would 
have loved me best of all? The same old questions reduced 
me to the same old tears ... I pulled myself together and 
remembered my three-fold duty: to say my prayers, to read 
my psalm, to sing my hymn. I decided, with a true Saint’s 
whim, to choose my nightly psalm by opening my Bible at 
random — I could gauge the whereabouts of the Psalms well 
enough, if only by the used look on the edge — and reading 
always the first psalm that caught my eye. Whether the Lord 
guided me to a choice of His own, or whether it was that my 
Bible opened naturally at so familiar a place, I do not know: 
anyway, there before me was the dirty, well-loved, well- 
thumbed page (page 537 I remember), and in the middle of 
it, plastered around with affectionate red crayon, stood my 
favourite 137th Psalm. I read aloud: 

By the rivers of Babylon , there we sat down , yea, we wept, 
when we remembered Zion. 

At once the appropriateness of the words came to me. Never 
had I felt till now what I had been told a hundred times, 
that the Bible was written for me. Here was a psalm which 
expressed my identical sorrow: 

We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof . 

For the r e they that carried us away captive required of us 


164 MARY LEE 

a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth , saying , 
Sing us one of the songs of Zion. 

How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land? 

I finished the psalm and then tried to sing my hymn as 
I had promised my Grandmother, but I could not. My heart 
and my voice failed me: How could I sing the Lord’s song 
in a strange land? 

I awoke next morning, refreshed, to see the bright sun 
shining in. 1 did not know the time, as nobody had called 
me, and I had no watch. Just as I had finished dressing, 
a clock outside struck, the same clock as the night before. 
I counted; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven — on the eighth 
stroke I went downstairs. I’ll be punctual, I said to myself. 
Uncle Simeon, Aunt Martha and Albert were already at the 
table. I looked at the timepiece; it marked nearly a quarter 
after the hour! Yet last evening it had tallied with the chime 
outside. Aunt Martha and I exchanged a brief matutinal 
peck; I found it easier, after the first effort the night before, 
to keep away from Uncle Simeon. “Good morning, Uncle,” 
was all I said. 

“Good morning,” he replied, with a new touch of spite and 
venom in his whispering honeyed voice. “Not a good start, 
young woman. One said eight punctual for breakfast. ’Tis 
now fourteen minutes past.” 

“I came down the second the clock outside struck the 
hour. Last night it was the same time exactly. One of them 
must have gone wrong all of a sudden, or been altered 
perhaps.” 

“Altered? So you hint that this clock has been deliber- 
ately changed?” (I never thought of this till he suggested it, 
but then I knew; his shifty eyes betrayed him.) “One is 
not used to that sort of hint, and one has a way of dealing 
with it, a certain way.” 

I began my bowl of porridge. Meanwhile Uncle Simeon 
and Albert were beginning their eggs, and as soon as I 
had emptied my porringer, I looked around for mine. There 
was no egg within sight. I waited ; none appeared. I plucked 
up my courage to ask. 

“When is my egg coming, Aunt Martha?” There was a 
dead silence. Aunt Martha went red in the face, and looked 


I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 165 

uncomfortable. Uncle Simeon broke the silence. He looked 
hard at me, though never into my eyes. 

“When is your egg coming? It is not coming. In one’s 
house little girls are not pampered. They do not live on 
rich, unhealthy foods, nor wear sumptuous apparel. They do 
not lie upon beds of ivory, and stretch themselves upon their 
couches until a late hour, nor eat the lambs out of the flock, 
nor the calves out of the midst of the stall. They do not 
live in kings’ houses; they live at Number One the Quay, Torri- 
bridge; under this Christian, if humble, roof. They eat 
humble Christian fare, and thank our Lord for it in a humble 
Christian way. If a fine generous bowl of porridge does not 
suffice, there is always plenty of good, plain bread. Your 
Aunt will give you as many crusts as you can wisely eat.” 

So I was to be starved, and preached at in my starvation! 
He was going to make sure of his eight shillings’ worth. I 
felt red with anger, but held my tongue, schooled to silence 
by ten years of Aunt Jael. Aunt Martha looked ashamed of 
his meanness, but was far too weak to fight it. What will 
she ever had was stamped out of her on her wedding-day, 
poor wretch. Albert, dull, greedy little beast, gloated 
coarsely over my discomfiture, his tongue (all yellow with 
egg) hanging out of his mouth. Uncle Simeon tried to dis- 
guise his triumph under his usual loathsome mask of meek- 
ness, or perhaps he felt that he had gone too far too soon. 

“Come, come! One is forgiving, one can be generous, 
merciful,” and handed me the little top of his egg slit off by 
his breakfast knife. 

This was adding insult to injury. Tears of anger stood in 
my eyes, but I managed to get out a calm “No, thank you,” 
which enabled him to write to my Grandmother, I afterwards 
found, that “the little one refuses even part of an egg for 
her breakfast.” 

After breakfast came prayers. He whined where Aunt Jael 
thundered. Then came lessons with Albert and Aunt Martha. 
The former was stupid to a degree; the latter was very in- 
teresting to me, after my years of Miss Glory, especially in 
the French, to which I took at once. Dinner consisted of an in- 
terminable grace, three times as long as Grandmother’s long- 
est, and a tiny portion of hash. For “afters” there was a 


166 


MARY LEE 


roly-poly pudding, quite plain, with no lovely hot jam worked 
in between the folds. Uncle Simeon and Albert had cold 
raspberry jam with theirs, out of a jar on the table. Aunt 
Martha and I did not. Manifestly the womenfolk at Number 
One the Quay did not live in Kings’ houses, if the males 
did. Uncle Simeon was the King and Albert the King’s son. 
My slice, the nasty dry bit at the end, was not four mouth- 
fuls. He served everything. 

After dinner Albert and I were sent out for a walk to- 
gether. 

“Where are we going to?” I asked. 

“Where I like,” was the reply, in a sulky voice, ruder 
than he dared use before his father. “And look here you, 
learn at the start, when you go walks with me you’ll do 
what I tell you. And if you see me doing aught as I choose 
to, and there’s any sneaking — I’ve got a fist you know.” 

The little brute lowered. I wondered what the dark things 
he hinted at might be; pitch-and-toss with boon companions 
of a like age, I afterwards discovered. Anyway, his hand 
too was against me: I was a young Hagar. For tea I had 
a bit of plain bread and a mug of hot milk and water, though 
Uncle Simeon and Albert had butter and whortleberry jam 
with their bread, and tea to drink. Afterwards I worked at 
the morning’s lessons, sums and grammar and je donne , tu don - 
nes, il donne. Then knitting — grey woollen socks for Brethren 
missionaries — evening prayers — my own bedside devotions — 
and bed. 

All days were much like the first one, when not worse. 
It was the most miserable period of my life. Soon the daily 
round at Bear Lawn became almost cheerful in my memory. 
I was wretchedly underfed; though I sometimes lost ap- 
petite, and could not even eat the scanty fare he allowed 
me. When I left food on my plate, unlike Aunt Jael he did 
not force me. Rather he made it a good excuse for saying 
I had more to eat than I needed. My morning porridge 
was what I liked best, and one day I said so. “Ah, glut- 
tony!” he cried, and snatched my porringer, pouring off the 
milk and scraping the brown sugar on to his own plate; 
“Whosoever lusteth after her victuals, the same is lost. Ah, 
to make one’s belly one’s God, ’tis a sin before the Most High!” 


167 


I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 

A starvation day in the attic was a favourite punishment, 
as it combined economy with cruelty. At times I should 
have fainted away half-famished but for what Aunt Martha 
privily conveyed me. 

Three evil passions, I soon found, held pride of place in 
Uncle Simeon; meanness, greed and cruelty. Sometimes, if 
at a meal-time Aunt Martha went into the kitchen for a mo- 
ment, he would get up with a cat-like speed, scrape all the 
butter off her slice of bread-and-butter, and spread it on his 
own piece. Aunt Martha said nothing, to such depths of 
fear and obedience can women sink; though she flushed the 
first time she saw that I saw this husbandly deed. He was 
too mean to keep a servant; helped once a week by a char- 
woman, a tall funereal Exclusive Sister named Miss Woe. 
Aunt Martha did all the work of a house twice the size of 
Bear Lawn. 

Cruelty came nearest to his heart. He flogged me brutally. 
The first time the trouble began over a letter, a few days 
only after I arrived at Torribridge. He came into the din- 
ing-room, sniffing spitefully. I knew something was afoot 
by the look of mean anticipated triumph in his eyes. He held 
out a letter for my inspection, placing his thumb over the 
name of the person to whom it was addressed. I could read 
“I, The Quay, Torribridge”; the handwriting was my Grand- 
mother’s. 

“ ’Tis a letter from my Grandmother,” I cried, “a letter 
for me.” 

“A letter from your dear Grannie, true, true; but who said 
it was for you? Who said that? ha! ha!” 

“It is, I know it is. Give it me, please.” 

Sniffing and sneering, he handed it across. There was 
“Miss Mary Lee” true enough; but the envelope had been 
opened. 

“ 9 Tis mine then; who opened it?” 

“Who opened it? One who will open every letter that 
comes if one chooses, in accordance with your dear Great- 
Aunt’s wishes.” 

“It’s not true. I’m ten years old. Can’t I open my own let- 
ters from my own Grandmother? She’s my only friend in the 
world. It’s not true.” 


168 


MARY LEE 


“Have a care what you say, young miss, have a care. There 
is another little friend for you in the drawing-room. You 
shall be introduced at once.” 

I followed him upstairs, rabbit-like, not knowing what to 
expect. He locked the door. “Here is the Little Friend,” he 
said, fetching from a corner a ribbed yellow cane. He gave 
me a cruel thrashing, clawing my left shoulder and whirling 
me round and round. The room was enormous; a spacious 
thrashing place. He hurt me as much as Aunt Jael on a field- 
day with the ship’s rope, but I bawled less; no pain could draw 
from me the shrieks I knew he longed to hear. 

Never more than four or five days passed without his thrash- 
ing me. I could review impartially the modes and methods 
of the two tyrants I knew: Aunt Jael with her stout thorned 
stick, Uucle Simeon with his lithe ribbed cane. Aunt Jael 
dealt hard brutal blows, Uncle Simeon sly mean strokes. She 
hit and banged and bruised. He swished and stung and cut. 
Hers was the Thud and his the Whirr. Both of them would 
have been prosecuted nowadays; there was no N.S.P.C.C. then 
to violate the sacred right of the individual to maltreat his 
human chattels. Both Great-Aunt and Uncle always left me 
bruised, and sometimes* bleeding. Yet of the two I dreaded 
his canings more; because he seemed so much the viler. Not 
that the dust of the Torribridge beatings formed as it were a 
halo round the Tawborough ones, not that Aunt Jael’s grim 
masterpieces were becoming a winsome memory, not that a safe 
distance lent any enchantment to my mental view of her strong 
right arm. But with a child’s instinctive perspicuity, I felt, 
though I could not have put my feelings into words, that there 
was some notion with my Great-Aunt beyond mere brutality; 
some sense of duty, of loyalty to her own Draconian creed. 
Her Proverbs counselled her thus. Chasten thy son while 
there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying — little 
she spared for mine; — I found it needed loud houseful of 
crying for briefest moment of sparing. He that spareth his 
rod hateth his son, but he that loveth him chasteneth him be- 
times — then indeed was her love for me exceeding great, out- 
measuring far the love of Paris for Helen for whose sake 
terrific war was made and Ilion’s plains shook with thunder 
of armed hosts and Troy town fell, or King Solomon’s for 


I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 169 

his Beloved in the garden of lilies and pomegranates. She 
thought she was doing her duty. 

I knew that Uncle Simeon had no such excuse, and that he 
was something much worse than Aunt Jael: a coward. He was 
craven, creeping, caddish. He liked to flog me because I was 
weak and small and defenceless. His pale face sweated, his 
eyes lit up with a loathsome triumph, his lips were wet with 
joy. His cold clammy hands — like wet claws — gripped my 
shoulder. As evil breeds always evil, his hate bred hate in 
me: a physical, unhealthy hate I feel to this day, though he is 
long since gone to his judgment. 

I had no friend, no affection, to protect me from this crea- 
ture or compensate me for his presence. Aunt Martha, in 
whom her mother’s gentleness ran to feebleness, was sometimes 
petulant, often kind (if she dared), and always null. With 
Albert, except on walks, I had little to do. Sometimes he 
bullied me, or spat or cursed at me, when there was nobody 
about. At times he was bearable, because too idle to be any- 
thing else. I missed my Grandmother terribly, whom I saw 
through this dark atmosphere as a very angel of kindness. 

Life was even now more monotonous than at Bear Lawn, 
except for the daily walks: there were no changes, no variety, 
no visitors. Once indeed Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom, who 
had been ministering on Lord’s Day to the Torribridge Exclu- 
sive Saints, and had missed the last conveyance back to Taw- 
borough, was reluctantly put up for the night by Uncle Simeon. 
The ill-concealed tortures the latter endured at beholding the 
egg and bacon Aunt Martha had the temerity to put before Mr. 
Nicodemus for his breakfast, was a delight that stands fresh in 
my memory today. 

On Sundays the week’s monotony was hardly broken by the 
Meeting, a dull funereal affair, with none of the godly enthu- 
siasm of our Great Meeting. Some ten dull or consumptive- 
looking creatures attended. Uncle Simeon was the one High 
Priest: he did fifty per cent of the praying, seventy-five per 
cent of the exposition, chose and called out almost all the 
hymns, and always took and “apportioned” the offertory. No- 
body else counted for anything. I can just recall one Brother 
Atonement Gelder, who sniffled richly throughout the service 
in a way that reminded me of oysters. I see, vaguely, a 


170 MARY LEE 

Brother Berry; and, more vaguely, a Brother Smith. They 
are shadows; the Meeting never filled a place in my life as at 
Tawborough. I remember more clearly Uncle Simeon’s long 
sticky half -whispered supplications to the Lord, and one partic- 
ular hymn we droned out every Lord’s Day: 

Come to the ark! come to the ark! 

Oh come, oh come away! 

The pestilence walks forth by night 
The arrow flies by day. 

Come to the ark! the waters rise, 

The seas their billows rear: 

While darkness gathers o’er the skies 
Behold a refuge near. 

Come to the ark! all — all that weep 
Beneath the sense of sin; 

Without, deep calleth unto deep, 

But all is peace within 

Come to the ark! ere yet the flood 
Your lingering steps oppose! 

Come, for the door which open stood, 

Is now about to close. 

Most of the hymns were in the old London Hymn Book we 
used at Tawborough, so I could join in the singing from the 
very first. It pained me to hear the thin peevish rendering the 
Torribridge Exclusives gave of He sitteth o’er the water-floods, 
or their pale piping of Brother Briggs’ stentorian favourite / 
hear the Accuser Roar. Aunt Martha and I squeaked feebly. 
Brother Atonement Gelder sniffled in tune, and Uncle Simeon 
whispered the words to himself with his eye in godly thankful- 
ness turned heavenward. We stood up for the hymns; it is the 
only Meeting — but one — at which I have known this done. 
We worshipped in a dark stuffy little room behind a baker’s 
shop. Aunt Martha scarcely spoke to the other Saints or they 
to her. 

My one idea was to get back to Bear Lawn. Aunt Jael said 
I was to live here for at least one year, and for three if it 
proved satisfactory — satisfactory to her. I was to have one 
holiday in Tawborough each year; but not till the first year 
was out. Grandmother had said she would come over some- 


I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 


171 


times ; I knew that Uncle Simeon was not eager to have her and 
would find excuses for delaying her visits. Could I abide it 
dor a year? Fear and ill-usage and hunger were worrying me 
into a state of all-the-time nervousness and wretchedness be- 
yond what I had ever experienced. How could I tell Grand- 
mother this, and how much I wanted to come back to her? He 
read all my letters, and I knew she would disapprove if I tried 
to write without his knowing. What should I do? Counting 
the days and crossing them off each night on the wall-almanac 
in my bedroom might help to make them pass more quickly. 

After all Aunt Jael was no magnet drawing me back to Taw- 
borough. If life was worse here with him, it was bad enough 
there with her. Life was a wretched business altogether. 
Still, Uncle Simeon was worse than Aunt Jael, and if the walks 
and fresh air I got here compensated for the better food at Bear 
Lawn, my Grandmother weighed down the balance overwhelm- 
ingly in favour of the latter. I must get back. But how? I 
was ignorant and inexperienced beyond belief. I first thought 
of just leaving the house one day, and running back to Taw- 
borough. I could manage the nine miles from one door to the 
other, — but the doors! I already felt Uncle Simeon’s claws 
dragging me in as I sought to cross his threshold, and Aunt 
Jael’s heavy hand on my shoulder at the other end if ever I 
should reach it. If I dared to run away, even if not sent back 
to worse days here, I could see a bad time of punishment and 
wrath ahead at Bear Lawn. It would be jumping out of the 
frying-pan into the fire, bandying myself between the thorned 
stick and the ribbed cane, escaping from unhappiness to unhap- 
piness. It was hell here, and near it there — hell everywhere. 
If my face was as disagreeable as my heart was bitter 
and wretched, I must have looked a dismal little fright. 

Albert assured me that I did. 


CHAPTER XIV: I BECOME CURIOUS 


Uncle Simeon did not improve on closer acquaintance; nor 
on closer reflection did my clrance of foregoing that acquaint- 
ance improve. Just as he abandoned all pretence of being 
kind and affable, so I began to abandon all hope of getting 
back to Tawborough for the present. How could I escape 
him? gave place to: How could I harm him? 

I soon came to see that he was in constant fear of something. 
Slight sounds and movements would make him start. Some- 
times when we were talking he would slink away suddenly as 
though to reassure himself that all was well in some other part 
of the house. Could I somehow expose him, triumph over 
him? 

In those days Torribridge Quay, though much decayed, was 
far livelier than it is today; the river-side was dark with masts, 
and you could still see the serried line of brown sails: trading 
ships that plied the routes to the Indies and the two Americas. 
Number One was a substantial square-looking house hard by 
the bridge. It was dark, darker even than No. 8 Bear Lawn and 
very much bigger. The house had belonged to Uncle Simeon’s 
brother, and came to him when the brother died. On the 
ground floor were three big living rooms — in only one of which 
we lived. The first floor contained a gloomy sort of drawing- 
room of enormous dimensions, known to me as the thrashing- 
room, and five bedrooms. Three of these were large, one being 
occupied by Uncle Simeon and Aunt Martha, and the other two 
permanently untenanted. Two smaller bedrooms were used 
respectively by Albert and myslf. Two narrow staircases led 
to the garrets, the front one to “my” attic (I call it such be- 
cause I was locked therein not less than three times a week), 
a small bare apartment with one window, so high in the wall 
that I could barely see out of it even when standing on tip-toe; 
the back one to Uncle Simeon’s “study.” Here he concocted 
potions if any of us were ill, and here for long hours at a 
stretch he studied the Word of God. Sometimes he spent 

172 


I BECOME CURIOUS 173 

whole days there, descending only for meals. This back stair- 
case to the second storey was from the first forbidden to me, 
forbidden in so marked and threatening a manner as to arouse 
my curiosity. It was on my second or third day that he found 
me loitering about near the foot of it. He came upon me 
suddenly in his carpet-slipper way. I started. He started too. 

“If one were to find you where one forbids you to go” — he 
looked expressively up the narrow staircase — “if — well, one 
thinks it would be better not.” 

His words had, of course, the opposite effect to that he in- 
tended. I determined to risk a rush up this staircase. There 
were difficulties. I was never alone in the house, and the 
creaky uncarpeted floor would be sure to give me away. My 
strong impulse towards obedience, whether the fruits of a 
nine-year-long regime of thorned stick, or of natural instinct, 
or both, also counselled leaving well alone. Again, fear was 
a deterrent, especially when I found that he was watching me; 
though this stimulated curiosity as well as fear. For some 
days the battle, Curiosity versus Fear, raged within me: a 
passion of curiosity as to the mystery of the forbidden room, 
a lively sense of what Uncle Simeon’s mood and methods would 
be like if he caught me there. 

One day I plucked up courage for an attempt. I took off 
my shoes and tip-toed upstairs. The old stairs creaked vil- 
lainously. To every creak corresponded a twinge of fear 
in my heart; I waited each time to see if anything had been 
heard. At last I reached the top in safety. The key was in 
the lock inside the door, so I could see nothing. It was some 
seconds before I realized the fact that the key was inside 
proved that Uncle Simeon was probably there! For a mo- 
ment I stood petrified with fear. As he did not seem to have 
heard me, however, a swift descent was my best policy. 

It was some days before I recovered enough spirit to make 
a second attempt: one afternoon, after tea, when Uncle Sim- 
eon was out. This time there was no key in the door, but it 
was too dark to see much. All I could make out was a big 
square box, painted dark green, straight ahead of the key- 
hole — a safe, though I did not know it — and, by peering 
up, a dark thing which looked like a big hole in the top of 
the wall. This was disappointing; next day I seized an op- 


174 


MARY LEE 


portunity of going up earlier. I could see the big green box 
quite clearly, and could confirm my idea that the black thing 
was a large square.hole in the wall. There was nothing more 
to he seen, and I returned for a cautious descent. But my 
feet refused to move. 

There at the foot of the narrow staircase was the white leer- 
ing face. I was caught, without escape or excuse. 

I stood still with fright, waiting for him to say something, 
to come up to the little landing on which I stood, to touch 
me, maul me, strike me. He slunk up the stairs. While he 
came along, smiling, smiling, I stood numbed and helpless. 
We were the cowering hypnotized rabbit and the sure trium- 
phant serpent. But no, as he came nearer I saw that his 
face bespoke anything but triumph. There was the same fear 
and anxiety I had noticed on the first day, and in addition a 
queerer look I seemed to remember in some more poignant 
though less definite way. That half-hunted half-hunter look, 
sneer of triumph distorted by fear, what was it? What string 
of my memory did it touch? As he reached the top I saw 
he was sweating with fright, and his fear assuaged mine. I 
was by now excited rather than frightened, and puzzled even 
more. He peered into my face. It was an unpleasant mo- 
ment, quite alone with him on that tiny lonely landing at the 
top of the house. I feared I did not know what. He clawed 
my shoulder. 

“Trapped, young miss, trapped. One will bear with much, 
but with disobedience never” (a sniff). “If this should hap- 
pen again, — but ha! ha! one has something, something very 
sure, that will prevent that. Something that stings and cuts 
and curls, ha! ha! Something worse than one’s poor mere 
cane.” 

“What?” I said faintly. 

“A whip,” he whispered. As my fear grew, so his lessened. 
Then the queer unremembered look came to his face again, 
and he changed his tone completely. His grasp of my 
shoulder was transformed from a menace into a coax. 

“Well, well, we will say no more about it, we will say 
no more about. We ” he repeated meaningly. (With any- 
body else I should not have noticed the word, which fell 
strangely from his lips. “One will say no more,” was his 


I BECOME CURIOUS 175 

natural phrase.) “If you hold your tongue and don’t tell 
your Aunt Martha I found you here — there’ll be no flogging.” 
It was a tacit pact. He descended the staircase, and I followed 
him. 

I thought perhaps I might learn something by pumping 
Albert. 

“What is there in your father’s study?” I asked him cas- 
ually on a walk. 

“Oh, some old bottles and books; nothing much, father lets 
me go in sometimes, but there’s nothing special to see.” 

This was a genuinely casual reply. It puzzled me. If 
the room was so mysterious, why did Uncle Simeon take 
Albert there, yet forbid me entrance with such obvious fear? 
“He thinks I’m sharper,” I flattered myself. This was true, 
but it explained very little. My curiosity grew. I rehearsed 
every detail: the green box, the hole in the wall. Uncle Sim- 
eon’s original veto, and his extreme fear the day he caught me. 

And that look? Where had I seen it? I racked my brains 
without success. Then one night in bed, with a mad sudden- 
ness it flashed into my mind as these things do. It was the 
self-same look I had noticed at Bear Lawn on Aunt Jael’s 
seventieth birthday when we were talking about his brother 
and how he died and I had said artlessly: “Perhaps it was 
Poison?” The expression on his face that day was the same 
as when he clutched me on the staircase. 

The dead brother was part of the same mystery as the 
attic. 

Wild ideas coursed through my head. The so-called study 
was one vast poison-den. The dead brother’s skeleton was 
lying there, the bones were strewn about the floor. Or he 
had been pushed through the strange black hole in the wall — 
where did that hole lead to? or his body had been squashed 
into the green box. 

I resolved to raise the poison topic in front of him, and 
to watch the effect. I would mention it as though quite by 
accident, and look as artless as I could. Necessity which 
sharpens all things, had equipped me with a special cun- 
ning to achieve the chief aim of my existence: the smallest 
possible number of beatings. But all my cunning never re- 
duced the least little bit in the world my extreme timidity. 


176 


MARY LEE 


Thus while I was quite equal to preparing beforehand a seem- 
ingly offhand question for Uncle Simeon as to Poison, I 
quailed at the thought of actually putting it. I simply dared 
not talk to him direct, nor should I be able to lo'ok at him so 
closely if I did. I decided to introduce the topic to Aunt 
Martha one day when he should also be present. Should I 
begin talking about the dead brother, or more specifically 
about poisoning? The latter was more difficult to introduce, 
but a moreT crucial test. How could I begin a conversation 
about poison? I prepared a hundred openings, none of 
which seemed natural. As usual the opportunity came un- 
expectedly. Thanks to my scheming I was not quite 
unprepared. 

One evening Uncle Simeon was sitting at the dining-room 
table reading the Word, while Aunt Martha was discoursing 
to me on God’s Plan of Salvation, exhorting me to repentance 
while it was not yet too late. “Ah, how great is the likeli- 
hood of hell for every one of us! For you, my child, it is 
woefully great. You, who have been brought up in the glory 
of the Light, who have communed from your earliest days 
with the Saints — ” 

“The Saints, my dear?” sniffed Uncle Simeon, “one would 
hardly say the Saints. To be sure there are many true and 
earnest believers like your dear mother and dear Miss Vickary 
amongst them; yet the Open Brethren are for the most part 
but weak vessels. Only we of the Inner Flock are truly 
entitled to be called the Brethren, the Saints. But proceed, 
my dear.” 

“Well, my dear, though your uncle is of course right, none 
will deny that you have had more light shed upon your path 
than many poor little children. Think of the little black 
children out in Africa and India, think even of the little ones 
in England who have Methodist or Churchgoing or Romanish 
fathers and mothers. Unless you are saved, what will you 
do if the Lord takes you suddenly? Are you ready to face 
Him? Are you ready to die? There are many, you know, 
whom the Lord calls away very, very suddenly. Today they 
are, tomorrow they are not. One moment healthy and strong, 
the next white and stark. The Lord takes them in an in- 
stant — ” 


I BECOME CURIOUS 177 

“Like Uncle Simeon’s brother,” I broke in. “Didn’t the 
Lord take him very suddenly?” 

I managed to keep my voice steady and to watch him while 
pretending I was not. He tried to pretend he was not 
watching me. Whether I betrayed my excitement I do not 
know. He was certainly uneasy. 

“Yes, my child, the Lord took him in a moment. It 
was never known of what disease he went.” She spoke in 
her usual lifeless way. She suspected nothing. 

“Perhaps his heart?” I said learnedly. It was a favour- 
ite ailment of Miss Salvation Clinker’s; ’er ’eart. “Or per- 
haps he had eaten something that was not good for him, too 
much laver or some mussels or periwinkles, maybe?” Here 
again my dietetic insight was based on Miss Salvation’s lore. 
I was killing time while I summoned up courage for the 
crucial word — “or — or — took something that poisoned 
him?” 

The word was out and it had gone home. He did not 
scold me as he ordinarily would have done for talking so 
much. I saw him looking sickly and frightened by the glare 
of the lamp by which he was pretending to read. Then 
he got up hurriedly and left the room. 

I began to rack my brains for some more ordinary re- 
marks to cover my retreat. Aunt Martha saved me the trou- 
ble. “Poison,” she said, “nonsense, most likely heart failure.” 

“Yes,” I replied, “Miss Salvation Clinker says all sudden 
deaths come from heart failure.” 

“All sudden deaths come because the Lord calls,” she cor- 
rected. “The Lord called him, that was all. If He calls 
you , be ready.” 

What I had so far discovered came to this: first, that 
talk of his brother’s death brought a queer look to Uncle 
Simeon’s face; second, that if you spoke of poison there was 
the same look; third, that it was one and the same with 
the expression on his face the day he caught me outside his 
study door. In my heart I had already charged him with 
the worst of all crimes. I was determined by hook or crook 
to get into that study; to solve that mystery, which had the 
shadow of death — and of Uncle Simeon — upon it. 


178 


MARY LEE 


This was about the end of August 1859. Then for a few 
weeks a happier interest came into my life. But here again 
the shadow of Uncle Simeon interposed, and darkened the 
happy dream. 


CHAPTER XV: WESTWARD HO! 


Uncle Simeon did not allow me to go for walks alone. 
Albert, however, who was my usual companion, got into 
the habit of leaving me as soon as we were away from the 
Quay, with a curt intimation to clear off in another direction 
and to meet him later at a given place and time so that 
we might return to the house together. 

One fine day in early Autumn, I climbed to the top of 
one of the hills that looks down on Torribridge: a picture 
made up of white houses, shining river, old bridge, green 
bosomy hills sloping down to the stream, and over them all 
the sun. The scene was pleasing, yet it meant very little 
to me. There was the sun in my blood, and a young crea- 
ture’s delight in the fine bright day, and in the feeling of space 
and power that you may feel in high clear places; no more 
than that. There was no conscious enjoyment of the love- 
liness beneath me. The joy that beautiful scenery can give 
to the soul I did not know. Children, like animals, do not 
feel it. This emotion comes from books, pictures and art 
generally. As to romantic little boys who draw, or say they 
draw, their deepest emotions from Nature’s well — if so, it 
must be because they are learned little boys who, taught by 
the magical words of fine books that Nature is beautiful, 
have turned to her to find it true. 

The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 

Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite; a feeling and a love, 

That had no need of a remoter charm, 

By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye ... a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

179 


180 


MARY LEE 


All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. 

Wordsworth (that lost soul) felt those things and described 
them in authentic terms. He could do this because he was 
not an ordinary, but a very extraordinary, child of the moun- 
tains. How many shepherd boys sallying forth at dawn with 
their flocks up the Stye or along the Little Langdale are 
haunted “like a passion” by the natural beauties they see? 
They do not share the poet’s emotions because they know 
nothing of the lovely words and pictures and ideas that can 
invest poor Nature with romance. 

In any case, I was neither a romantic nor a learned little 
boy, but a very ignorant and unromantic little girl. It was 
only when I became suddenly a little less ignorant of books, 
history and ideas, that I came to see — where before there 
was at most a vague unconscious sense of pleasure — that 
Torribridge town seen from the hills was a fair prospect. 

This is how it happened. 

I was leaning on a stile, idly looking down towards the 
far-away bridge and trying to count the arches. 

“Fine!” said a quiet voice behind me. 

I started, turned round, and beheld a stranger looking 
down at me. He was a tall young man of perhaps twenty; 
his face pale and rather thin. His eyes peered. A proud 
mouth contrasted with earnest eyes. He wore breeches and 
carried a gun. Half squire, half scholar; something of the 
studious, the aristocratic and sporting all combined. All I 
was sure of just then was a pair of kind brown eyes which 
I immediately and favourably contrasted with the steel-blue 
glitter of Uncle Simeon’s, and something exquisite and some- 
how superior to myself in their owner. I had an unerring 
instinct of class inferiority: I knew my betters. 

“Fine, isn’t it?” repeated the Stranger. 

“Ye-es,” I said. I thought him a bit silly, and felt sil- 
lier myself. 

“It’s a fine sight,” he said, leaning against the stile by 
my side. “Isn’t it, little girl? Come, say Yes.” 

The enthusiasm I failed to understand made me combative. 
“What’s the good of it?” I said tartly. “It hasn’t a soul.” 


WESTWARD HO! 181 

The Stranger stared. He was surprised — or amused — I 
was not sure which. 

Hasn’t a soul! This little town that has nestled there for 
a thousand years, from the days when the Vikings first sailed 
up the Torridge till the days when the New World was found, 
when ships sailed forth to the Indies from that quay there 
and came back laden with gold and wonderful spices? This 
little town we’re looking at now that sent many ships to the 
Armada and hundreds more to harry the Spaniards on all 
the seas? Hasn’t a soul, little girl! Are you sure?” 

“I didn’t know all that; I have never heard of all those 
things and people. There’s Robinson Crewjoe, who sailed 
away to the Indies and lived on an island, that Aunt Jael 
wouldn’t let Mrs. Cheese finish telling me about. Did he 
sail from here?” 

“I’m not sure, but plenty of people like him did.” 

“And what’s the Vikings and the Great Armada? I’ve 
heard of the Great Leviathan. Is that the same?” 

“Not quite. Most little girls have heard of these things. 
It’s very strange you know nothing about them. Don’t you 
go to school?” 

“I did when I lived in Tawborough with my Grandmother 
and Aunt Jael: I went to Miss Glory Clinker’s. But now 
I’m in Torribridge I do lessons at home with Aunt Martha.” 

“Well, hasn’t either the lady with the peculiar name or 
your aunt ever taught you .any history?” 

“History? All about Saul and David and Solomon and 
Ahab?” 

“Yes, but there’s other history; the history of Torribridge 
for instance, and of England; the History of the Armada we 
have just been talking about.” 

“Why: did you learn about those things at school?” 

“Yes. I do still.” 

“But you don’t go to school still?” 

“I do.” 

“But you’re grown up.” 

“Well, I go to a school for grown-ups, don’t you see?” 

“I’ve never heard of one. Where is it?” 

“In an old city a long way from here called Oxford.” 


182 


MARY LEE 


“Oxford! Why I’ve heard of some one who’s there. Do 
you know Lord Tawborough?” 

The Stranger started. 

“I do — well; very well. What do you know about him?” 

“I know he was there at Oxford, that’s all; I heard 
my Grandmother say so. What’s he like?” 

“That’s rather a hard question, young woman.” 

“Well, is he like you?” 

The Stranger smiled. 

“Something like me perhaps; about the same age.” 

“Does he know about the Armada and all these wonderful 
things you’ve told me about?” 

“Yes, I expect so, I expect he does, and” — he switched away 
from Lord Tawborough — “you must learn about them too. 
You shall read about them in a book I’m going to give you.” 

“A book? What do you mean? My Grandmother would 
not let me read any book hut the Word, nor would Uncle 
Simeon. Torribridge doesn’t come into the Bible, nor do the 
Vikings nor the Armada, because I’ve read it all through five 
times and I would remember the names.” 

He smiled; it was a kind smile, yet quizzical. I liked him, 
but was not quite sure of him. I went on a little less con- 
fidingly. 

“All other books except the Bible are full of lies. Aunt 
Jael says so.” 

This was final. How loyally I quoted Aunt Jael! Sure 
weapon with which to combat error. I knew I was a little 
boorish; perhaps I meant to be. 

“Well,” said the Stranger, “your Grandmother and Uncle 
Simeon would let you read this book, I know, and as it’s all 
quite true, Aunt Jael won’t mind either. We will go down 
into the town and buy it.” 

I was proud of his company, proud of his voice, his face, 
his breeches, his gun, which conferred distinction upon me. 
I apprehended that there was something odd or special about 
me that amused him. He liked me and I liked him. He was 
from a kinder handsomer world than mine. His face was a 
new treasure in my heart. 

I refused to go into the book-shop with him, partly through 
fear of being seen by Uncle Simeon, partly as a concession to 


WESTWARD HO! 183 

Conscience. If I was going to read a worldly book at least 1 
would not go into the evil place where it was sold. He came 
out and thrust a parcel into my hand. “Good-bye. Meet me 
on the hill some other day and tell me if you are still quite 
sure.” 

“Thank you, Sir. Sure of what?” 

“That Torribridge hasn’t a soul!” 

I stuffed the book into my blouse and rushed to the meeting- 
place Albert had fixed. I was half an hour late and he swore 
at me. When we got home, I put the parcel still unwrapped 
under the mattress. This was a safe place, as I made my own 
bed; I must wait to begin reading till the morning. If I were 
to begin tonight Uncle Simeon would see the light under the 
door and come in to complain of the waste of candles. So I 
resolved to wake early. 

Next morning I woke at five o’clock and undid my parcel. 
The book was a dark red one. On the cover was printed in 
gold letters “WESTWARD HO!” It was as big as an average 
Bible, but not so thick. The moment I opened it, I was struck 
by the scent of the new pages. All smells are indescribable, 
though smell aids the memory and quickens the imagination as 
much as any other sense. To this day, it is by digging my nose 
between those pages that I can best recall the sentiment of forty 
years ago: the pleasure of talking with the Stranger, the first 
wild rapture of reading. 

I began to read. Here was Torribridge, a place I knew and 
lived in, described in print. I had read no other book but the 
Bible, which was so familiar as to have become part of myself, 
part of my life, something more than any book. Then, too, its 
glamour was of far-away folk and lands, holy places and holy 
people. The fact that now for the first time I saw printed 
words about seen and homely places — that I read of Torridge 
instead of Jordan, of Torribridge instead of Nineveh, of little 
oak ships that sailed from Tawborough Bay instead of great 
arks of cedar wood that went forth from Tyre and Sidon — gave 
me a new and exciting sensation very hard to describe. In the 
degree that the little Devonshire town was less sacred than the 
Holy City of Mount Zion, so it seemed to my eager eyes more 
wonderful to read about. 

“All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of 


184 


MARY LEE 


North Devon, must needs know the little white town of Torri- 
bridge, which slopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved 
with yellow sands, and many-arched old bridge where salmon 
wait for autumn floods, towards the pleasant upland on the 
west. Above the town the hills close in, cushioned with deep 
oak woods, through which juts here and there a crag of fern- 
fringed slate; below they lower, and open more and more in 
softly-rounded knolls, and fertile squares of red and green, 
till they sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats, rich salt 
marshes, and rolling sand-hills, where Torridge joins her sister 
Taw, and both together flow quickly toward the broad surges 
of the bar, and the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic 
swell. Pleasantly the old town stands there, beneath its soft 
Italian sky, fanned day and night by the fresh ocean breeze 
which forbids alike the keen winter frosts, and the fierce thun- 
der heats of the midland ; and pleasantly it has stood there for 
now, perhaps, eight hundred years since the first Grenville 
cousin of the Conqueror, returning from the conquest of South 
Wales, drew round him trusty Saxon serfs, and free Norse 
rovers with their golden curls, and dark Silurian Britons from 
the Swansea shore. ...” 

That afternoon I climbed the hill again, and saw for the first 
time something of the romance of the little white town; the 
bright roofs, the line of masts and great brown sails in the har- 
bour, the old bridge, the yellow sands, the fields green golden 
or red with pasture harvest or loam, the dark velvet forests, 
deep blue sky and quiet silver river. I could imagine now the 
fierce Atlantic not far away, to which the gentle stream was 
flowing. I saw that it was beautiful, in the same way that the 
lilies and roses in Solomon’s Song are beautiful ; or Heaven in 
Revelation, the city of jasper and pure gold, that has set in its 
midst the great white throne. This change was wrought by a 
book. My Grandmother’s oft-repeated words that the salva- 
tion of God could only have been revealed in the Book came 
into my mind. 

When I came to the story proper of men who sailed 

Westward Ho! with a rumbelow , 

And hurra for the Spanish Main O! 


185 


WESTWARD HO! 

I was enthralled. The idea of a story, of a narrative of doings 
that never took place, of invented events, had never entered 
my head. Goldilocks, Rumplestiltskin and Little Red Riding 
Hood were not of my world. I had never begged “Tell me a 
story,” nor heard the magical antiphone “Once upon a time.” 

Had Grandmother ever heard of Westward Ho! ? Did she 
know there were books like this; true, yet about familiar 
places? Surely she must. Would she approve? I doubted 
for a moment, remembering the picture-book Uncle John had 
once sent to me, which Aunt Jael destroyed while my Grand- 
mother looked on consenting; but was reassured by the godly 
sentiments which I found everywhere: by familiar phrases, 
even on the second page, such as “heathen Roman and Popish 
tyranny.” Were there other books like this? If so, I should 
like to read them. Were they about the Indies too? A world 
of ideas possessed me, a new planet had swum into my skies. 
I read hard, wildly. I woke up at four that I might have a 
good long read before getting up; I went to my bedroom at 
odd hours of the day to snatch a few moments’ delight. 

One day just after dinner Uncle Simeon came in in his 
usual noiseless cat-like way. I just had time to stuff the book 
under the mattress and to begin pretending to do my hair. He 
did not seem to have seen anything. 

I began to compare or contrast everything I read with my- 
self or my own experiences. Flogging, for instance, — as prac- 
tised by Sir Vindex Brimblecombe, whilom servitor of Exeter 
College, Oxford, and master of the Grammar School of Torri- 
bridge. I read with interest that flogging is the “best of all 
punishments” (I inclined to doubt this), “being not only the 
shortest” (indeed!) “but also a mere bodily and animal punish- 
ment” (why mere?), “though for the punisher himself pretty 
certain to eradicate from all but the noblest spirits every trace 
of chivalry and tenderness for the weak, as well as all self- 
control and command of temper.” How true! How Aunt 
Jael’s chivalry had waned! Flow Uncle Simeon’s tenderness 
for the weak had withered and wilted away! Surely this book 
too was inspired. I enjoyed Amy as’ encounter with Sir Vindex 
Brimblecombe. I loved to read how Sir Vindex jumped up, 
ferula in hand, and exhorted Amy as to “come hither, sirrah, 


186 


MARY LEE 

and be flayed alive” ; how the latter “with a serene and cheerful 
countenance” took up his slate, and brought it down on the 
skull of Sir Vindex “with so shrewd a blow” that slate and pate 
cracked on the same instant, and Sir Vindex dropped down 
upon the floor and “lay for dead.” Oh vicarious joy, oh bor- 
rowed plumes of valour that I wore for that incident! I shut 
my eyes and visualized Aunt Jael in the stead of Sir Vindex 
Brimblecombe. “Minx!” she said (not sirrah), as she ad- 
vanced upon me “stick in hand,” for although I did not know 
what a ferula was, I felt it was somewhat too light and lissom 
a description of thomed stick or ship’s rope. How I envied 
Amyas’ “serene and cheerful countenance” and revelled in the 
crash. I rehearsed the scene also with Uncle Simeon in the 
villain’s part and with an even dearer joy brought down the 
avenging slate on his honey-coloured coxcomb. 

To every character in the book I tried to give a face. 
Amyas, the hero, was my difficulty; I had met no heroes. 
Don Guzman I pictured as Uncle Simeon, though statelier and 
nobler. Mrs. Leigh was naturally Mrs. Lee, my Grandmother ; 
in name and character alike. Salvation Yeo I pictured as 
Brother Brawn, Frank Leigh, — tall, pale and distinguished — 
was of course the Stranger. I did not care very much for the 
Rose of Porridge herself, and had little interest in any of the 
ladies’ doings. Theirs was a secondary part. They did not 
do things themselves; they stayed at home in Torribridge to 
think about and wait for and be loved by the men who did the 
valiant deeds. Love affairs, so-called, failed to interest me at 
all, though the passionate affection between Mrs. Leigh and 
her sons made me husky and envious. It never occurred to me 
to visualize myself as Rose; if I took any part it was Amyas’. 

I was much interested in the description of Christmas Day. 
“It was the blessed Christmas afternoon. The light was fading 
down; the even-song was done; and the good folks of Torri- 
bridge were trooping home in merry groups, the father with 
his children, the lover with his sweetheart, to cakes and ale, 
and flap-dragons and mummers’ plays, and all the happy sports 
of Christmas night.” Why blessed Christmas afternoon, I 
wondered? Was the word used in Mrs. Cheese’s naughty 
sense or Miss Glory Clinker’s noble one? In either case I 


WESTWARD HO! 187 

didn’t see how it applied to the hideous 25th of December at 
Bear Lawn. 

I was pleased with the sound views on Popery, described as 
frantic, filthy, wily, false, cruel. Papists were skulkers, dogs, 
slanderers, murderers, devils. To be brought up by Catholics 
was to be taught the science of villany on the motive of 
superstition, to learn that “all love was lust” and all goodness 
foul. A Romanist was not a man, but a thing, a tool, a Jesuit. 
I did not understand it all, but I approved highly. That 
bigotry which mars the book in the eyes of fair-minded men 
was the quality that sealed it with the mark of virtue in my 
zealot eyes. Critics (I have since learnt;) forgive the sland- 
erous religious hate of this book for the sake of the fresh 
spirit and the fine story: I excused these dangerous delights 
to my conscience and to my Grandmother’s conscience by the 
author’s pious attitude towards Rome and error. I felt that 
the hook, in spite of the wild pleasure it gave me, must never- 
theless be godly, because of the pious plenitude with which it 
anathematized the Bad Old Man of the Seven Hills, the 
Scarlet Woman, the Great Whore of Babylon, the Blatant 
Beast, the great HIM-HER. There was self-deceiving here. 

The story was the thing: the most chivalrous adventure 
of the good ship “Rose”; how they came to Barbados, and 
found no men therein; how they took the pearls at Margarita; 
what befell at La Guayra; Spanish Bloodhounds and English 
Mastiffs; how they took the Communion under the tree at 
Higuerote; the Inquisition in the Indies; the banks of the 
Meta; how Amyas was tempted of the devil; how they took 
the gold train. I lived in a world of gold and silver, ships, 
and swords, Dons and Devils. I saw the great Cordillera* 
covered with gigantic ferns, and the foamless blue Pacific^ 
I caught my breath as I stumbled on the dim ruins of dead 
Indian Empires; and I wiped my eyes when I read of Sal- 
vation Yeo and his little maid. I liked to read of the Queen 
of England, of Drake, Raleigh and Sir Richard Grenville, 
Devon men all, and John Oxenham swaggering along Torri- 
bridge Quay. I was interested most of all by Don Guzman, 
with his sweet sonorous voice, his woman’s grace and his 
golden hair, as of a god. He had been everywhere and seen 


188 


MARY LEE 


all. He knew the two Americas, the East Indies and the West, 
Old Spain, the seven cities of Italy, the twilight-coloured 
Levant and the multitudinous East. . . . 

I skimmed through each chapter quickly, and then read 
it slowly to drink in every word. Excitement of another 
kind was added by the difficulties of reading; I had to stop 
sometimes in the middle of an exciting passage and hide the 
book hastily away, when I heard Uncle Simeon on the stair- 
case. However, I managed to get three-quarters way through 
without mishap: as far as the attack on the gold train. Amyas 
and his men were hiding in the forest. The long awaited 
Spaniards and their treasure were just in sight. “Suddenly” 
— my heart beat fast, then stood still at the sound of a 
stealthy foot-fall. The door opened and Uncle Simeon 
came in. I had no time to stuff the book under the mattress 
properly. I leaned against the place where the clothes were 
ruffled and pretended to be making my bed. This, I thought 
bitterly, was the only sort of excitement my life afforded: 
not splendid bravery and adventure in South American forests 
but mere feeble cunning to save myself from this whey-faced 
cringing wretch. He smiled blandly. 

“Your aunt wants you to go for a walk with her,” he 
said. 

He tried to appear unconcerned, but I feared he had seen 
something. The moment he had gone I hid the book care- 
fully under the mattress, right in the very middle of the bed. 
When I came back from the walk with Aunt Martha I went 
straight up to my room. The book was not there. My first 
rage ai losing my treasure gave place, upon reflection, to fear. 
What would he do? At tea he smiled in a sneering way 
and said “What is worrying you, little one? You are pale.” 
His manner frightened me. The very fact that he said noth- 
ing about the matter was unusual and presaged something 
exceptionally bad. Would he use the whip, or make the worst 
of it to Aunt Jael and Grandmother? And what had he done 
with the book? The answer to these questions, though I 
did not know it till much later, is lying before me as I write. 
It is written on faded yellow paper, in a neat hand, with 
old-fashioned pointed characters. 


WESTWARD HO! 


189 


No 1, The Quay, 
Torribridge, 

Sept. 17th 1858. 

Dear Kinswomen and Sisters in the Lord, — 

One hopes the fine weather the Lord is sending finds both of you as 
well in body and mind and as thankful in spirit for our manifold bless* 
ings from above as I rejoice to say it finds dear Martha and one’s own 
poor self. Dear little Mary too is well : the happy result of the good air of 
Torribridge and of the plenteous, if plainly, fare one’s table affords. 
But the little one is not, alas, so thankful in spirit as her Aunt and one- 
self could wish. She has just done a deed which displays but poor 
gratitude, dear sisters, for your loving spiritual training of her early 
years and for one’s own godly, if humble, care. She has, alas, committed 
a grievous sin; though it pains one to speak thus, one had best speak 
openly. A grievous sin — one shrinks from writing the words, but there 
is one’s duty to you, to the child, to her aunt and to one’s own afflicted 
self. The facts are these. 

Yesterday one found her in her bedchamber — a homely if humble 
apartment to which one has always trusted her to retire at will — one 
found her in the act of reading a vile and worldly book. She hid it 
craftily under the bed-clothes when she heard one coming into the room 
as one chanced to do the other day. One let her see plainly one had 
detected all, looking at her sadly, as though to say “Ah, if Miss Vickary 
and dear Mrs. Lee knew what a viper they have nourished in their 
respective bosoms!”, and gave her one more chance to conquer her 
sin by herself and destroy the noisome thing. But no! “As a dog 
returneth to his vomit so a fool to his folly” (Prov. xxvi, II — your 
own favourite Proverbs, dear Miss Vickary) — and yesterday once again 
found her flushed with the carnal pleasure of those evil pages. One 
opened the book, not without a silent prayer that the Lord would 
cleanse one from its touch. Feeling it one’s plain, if painful, duty to 
see more clearly the nature of the evil thing, one perused a few pages. 
One found it to be a licentious novel , treating of haughty women “with 
stretched-forth necks and wanton eyes” (Isaiah iii, 16), of men who 
spend their days “in rioting and drunkenness, chambering and wanton- 
ness (Romans xiii, 13) and of drunkards, roisterers, sinners and blas- 
phemers. Here and there the writer, who is, one is told, a Church 
of England minister in this town — so what could one hope? — strives to 
beguile the unwary by striking a godly attitude towards Rome. Sound- 
ing brass and tinkling cymbals! — wolfish pretence to lead poor sheep 
astray. There is even worse than this; foul and wanton language 
abounds. A bad word on page 74 pained one much. 

Nothing has been said to the child yet, awaiting your wishes. One- 
hopes you will not wish her to be punished too severely. “Whom the 
Lord loveth he correcteth!” (Prov. iii, 12). One knows! one knows! 
Yet forgiveness may do much. One’s heart shrinks from blows; nothing 
but the direst sin ever drives one to bodily correction. No! One will 


190 MARY LEE 

simply bum the book before her, add a few godly words and read a 
Psalm together. 

Apart from this, the child’s spiritual state is not without hope, but she 
is a tree that needs careful pruning, if she is to take up her cross, as one 
hopes, in the foreign field. She holds special place in our hearts 
(dear Martha’s and one’s own), nor do we cease to pray for her. God 
has blessed her in the past, and bestowed many gifts and advantages, 
but one longs to know that she has received better things than this 
poor world can give, even joy and peace, the result of sin forgiven 
and the assurance of eternal life by faith in God’s Son as revealed 
in His Word. You will bear with one in speaking thus. One’s love 
for her is great, and one dares to hope, dear Mrs. Lee, that your regard 
for one’s self is considerable too, when you compare one with that 
other son-in-law, whose evil qualities, alas, seem to be showing in his 
little daughter despite her Christian environment. 

Our Meetings lately have been very helpful. A new sister has been 
won from Error; formerly a Wesleyan Methodist, a Miss Towl. Am 
deriving great consolation from a careful study of the prophet Joel. 

Forgive the length of this letter; one would have come to Tawborough 
liad not the Lord’s work detained one. Accept Martha’s loving greet- 
ings and believe me in the Brotherhood of the Lord, 

One who is less than the least of all the Saints, 

Simeon Greeber. 

P.S. The poor wayward child refuses to tell how she came by the 
abomination. It was new, so she must have bought it in a shop where 
such things are sold. Her money should be watched. Little though 
she is so wisely allowed, would it not be better for one to take charge 
of it, to ensure that it be not spent in sin? 

P P. S. Hoping that the Lord is granting you both the best of health 
and strength. Dear little Albert has a slight touch of quinsy, but this 
is yielding to treatment and prayer. 

The flattering creeping hound! His letter describes him 
tetter than any words of mine. At the time I knew nothing 
.of it; I was merely uneasy and wondered why nothing was 
happening. 

A few days later, just as we had finished evening prayers, 
he called me over to the fireside and said, “Ihere’s a duty 
to the Lord, little one, and to your dear Great-Aunt and 
Grandmother that has to be fulfilled. One has their orders 
and one’s Lord’s to obey.” He rummaged in his cupboard 
and brought forth my dear book. He looked at me, the 
lowest meanest triumph in his eyes, then flung the book sav- 
agely into the midst of the flames. In the fire-light he looked 
livid with spite. “So shall they burn who go a-whoring after 
strange gods,” he hissed. 


WESTWARD HO! 


191 


How I hated him. Yet for a moment as the dear book 
burned, I did not think of him. I was wondering how Amyas 
captured the Gold Train, and if Salvation Yeo found his 
little maid, and what the Stranger would say if I met him 
again. 


CHAPTER XVI: ROBBIE 


More than ever I lived in the world of my own imagination. 

Every day and a good p’art of every night — for I rarely 
fell asleep till one or two o’clock — I was thinking, worrying, 
brooding, planning, dreaming. I too would sail to the Indies 
and the lands of hidden gold, gleaning fame which would 
help me to bear Aunt Jael’s taunts with silent scorn, and 
wealth which I could fling in her face as clanging and trium- 
phant rejoinder to ‘7 pay for the child’s music.” I would 
succour the oppressed Indians, free the slaves, overthrow the 
Inquisition, and bring each and all into the Brethren fold; 
baldly unaware that these things belonged to centuries past. 
To right the wrong was important; the all-important was that 
/ should do it. But was it possible to a girl? Could even 
a grown woman do such things? Sailors were always men, 
shipwrecked mariners were always men, adventurers were al- 
ways men. Bright deeds were the monopoly of breeches. It 
was not fair. 

I would think of Mrs. Cheese’s friend, poor old Robinson 
Crew joe. I invented many desert islands of my own on which 
I was duly shipwrecked, was for ever drawing new maps of 
them, showing streams, creeks, bays and hills, position of my 
principal residence, summer bower, landing-spot of savages, 
position of wreck, etc., etc. I devised walks, expeditions, 
explorations; I varied my menu with a feminine skill un- 
known to old Robinson; and always, as befitted our morally- 
minded race, I would do good in my islands. I would justify 
my joy by works. I would convert the savages, and build a 
Meeting Room of clay and wattles. I would raid their Great 
God Benamuckee in his mountain fastness, bum him with 
ceremonial state, and thus atone for my own memorable 
blasphemy. But the chief joy, alas, of my twenty years’ 
sojourning was never so much in what I did as in announc- 
ing to the world that I had done it; not in the good I 
wrought, but in the praise I should earn. Thosfe twenty years 
nf playing the shipwrecked sea-woman must be lit up by the 

192 


ROBBIE 193 

glare of fame with which I should burst upon the world 
when at last some well-timed passing schooner restored me 
to the world. Horrible thought: suppose I died there? It 
was not, for the moment, the idea of death that chilled me — 
for He chills everywhere — but the thought of the glory I 
should lose by dying before my adventures had astonished 
the world. And the sex trouble again. Would trousers (if 
I wore them) however masculine, however bifurcative, enable 
me to build huts, to shoot, fish, hunt and to fight savages as 
well as a man? My inability to do these manly things, how- 
ever, deterred me little in my dreams. The castle-in-the-air- 
builder may build beyond her bricks. 

At this time Uncle Simeon was naturally my most frequent 
actor. I fashioned a dozen different things I should dis- 
cover about him and his attic, and a dozen different ways 
I should discover them. Sweetest of all were visions of 
revenge. He was a papist in disguise; I had him handed over 
to a kind of Protestant Holy Office, set up for his own pecul- 
iar benefit, of which I was Grand Inquisitress ; I was not 
stingy with my bolts and nuts and prongs and screws; my 
soul spared not for his crying. A great pitched battle be- 
tween Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon was my piece de resistance . 
Their hatred for each other was the fiery basis of the vision, 
my hatred for both of them the fuel. He would swish and 
she would bang. I let both of them be hurt, while I grudged 
to each of them the joy of hurting. If anybody won the 
battle it would be Aunt Jael; for my hatred of her was com- 
paratively a mild thing, a healthy human thing, just as she was 
a healthy, cruel, humanly bad old woman, a mere wild beast 
in comparison to this Greeber reptile. I preferred a long 
long struggle of evenly matched sneers, retorts, cuts and 
blows, which went on hour after hour until both were bleeding, 
bruised and utterly exhausted: grimmest of drawn battles. 
Then I would step in as lofty mediator with the blessed aure- 
ole of peace-maker about my head, the pain and weakening; 
of both my enemies for reward. (The same dream the Third 
Napoleon dreamt a few years later with Austria and Prussiai 
in the roles of Uncle Simeon and Aunt Jael: rudely shattered* 
was it not, by that swift Sadowa? But the Saviour of Society 
could not work his dream figures at will.) 


194 


MARY LEE 


In most of my picturings either I was alone, or dealing 
with enemies, some of whom, like Eternity, got the better of 
me, and others, like Uncle Simeon and Aunt Jael, over whom 
I triumphed. I shared no castle with a friend. A friend! 
Aunt Martha, Albert, Uncle Simeon? — I saw no one else. No 
visitor ever came to the house. 

I was astonished therefore when the portents announced 
•one. One afternoon I heard a noise of shifting in one of 
the unoccupied bedrooms. I looked in, and saw all the dis- 
array of cleaning, with Aunt Martha and the charwoman. 
Miss Woe, getting the room into order. Was it merely an 
autumn spring-cleaning, or was somebody coming to stay? 
I peeped in again next morning. There were clean sheets, 
the bed was turned down, there was water in the ewer. 
Grandmother or Aunt Jael? No; I heard from Tawborough 
every week. Prolonged visit of Mr. Nicodemus Shuffle- 
bottom? No: it would wring Uncle Simeon’s heart to revive 
the possibility of that nightmare breakfast of egg and bacon 
Aunt Martha had dared to put before him. After the day’s 
walk, I looked in at the bedroom again on my way down to 
tea. Oh mystery, there was a long black trunk, studded with 
brass nails and bearing in new white paint the superscription: 
R.P.G. A small cap and overcoat thrown on the bed revealed 
the age and sex of the new comer. I went down to the din- 
ing-room, and found him seated at the tea-table. 

“Master Robert,” said Uncle Simeon, introducing us in the 
honeyed voice he used before you knew him, “this is Mary. 
You may come forward, little one. This is Master Robert.” 

Handshake was followed by the furtive silence during which 
children stare at each other while vainly pretending to look 
elsewhere. Master Robert being the shyer, pretended more 
than he stared: I, being even more curious than shy, stared 
more than I pretended. I saw a healthy boy’s face with 
big brown eyes, a head of chestnut coloured hair and a brown 
velvet suit, the last very impressive. I guessed he was about 
my own age, though he was taller and bigger. All through 
tea I stared at him with merest snatches of polite pretence. 
This was the first time I had ever sat at the same table with 
any boy, except Albert. The latter did not appear to share 


ROBBIE 195 

his father’s obsequious delight in the new-comer, over whom 
Uncle Simeon sat fawning. 

I know now that he was a handsome little boy, but doubt 
if I thought so then. If I did, I was too jealous to admit 
it to myself. I felt I was an odd drab little object by the 
side of this healthy, well-dressed and superior being, as far 
above me as I above Susan Durgles. His rich velvet suit, 
my old grey merino; his laughing, tan-coloured face and 
brown happy eyes; my pinched white face and cat-green 
eyes : he was something better and richer and finer and 
happier than I was, and I did not like him. Little girls, they 
say, are never never jealous of little boys’ good looks, and 
the only people whose looks they envy are the other little 
girls with whom they are competing for the favour of the 
good-looking little boys. It may be so. I was pitiably ig- 
norant of the proper sentiments. My world was divided not 
into sexes but into two classes divided far more deeply : myself 
and other people. The second class was mostly cruel and 
unkind, so every new-comer was suspect. Master Robert’s 
fine poise, his colour, his health, the curve of his mouth, the 
velvet suit (I could not take my eyes from it, what wealth, 
what prestige, it betokened!) were all against him, and more 
so the favour with which he was regarded by Uncle Simeon. 
He was shy; I could stare him out easily. I fell to wonder- 
ing who he was and why he was here. 

Robert Grove was the younger brother of Aunt Martha’s old 
pupil (who had died some years back) and the orphan heir 
to a fine house and estate the other side of Tiverton. Nearly 
all his relatives were dead except a bachelor uncle, Vivian 
Grove, Esquire, with whom he lived at the latter’s house near 
Exeter. Uncle Vivian was travelling abroad for a few months 
and had put Robert here in his absence. Aunt Martha was 
known to and respected by Mr. Grove as the old governess of 
his elder nephew, though if he had known the kind of house 
she lived in now he would have hardly sent Master Robert 
there with so light a heart. The arrangements must have been 
made through friends or by correspondence, as Mr. Grove 
never entered our house and Aunt Martha never went away to 
see him. 


MARY LEE 


196 

Robert did lessons with Albert and me, and the three of us 
went our walks together. Uncle Simeon fawned on the new- 
comer and was by comparison sharper than ever with me; un- 
til, seeing that Robert did not like this, he pretended to treat 
me better. He did not want to offend Robert, who might 
write to his Uncle Vivian, and ask to be sent somewhere else. 
To make sure of keeping Robert’s board money, he had to curb 
somewhat his dislike for me. Greed vanquished spite, or 
rather, while profit was a thing it must be his present endeav- 
our to retain, spite would wait. For greed’s sake he fawned 
sickeningly upon the boy; a few kicks in dark corners and 
pinches as he passed me on the stairs sufficed for the present 
as tribute to spite. Albert and Robert were on bad terms from 
the start; Albert disliked him as I did, for his better clothes 
and superior ways, and more bitterly, “for sneaking up to 
father.” Robert despised Albert. Albert tried to win my 
alliance against him by treating me better. I accepted his 
advances while knowing their motive and value. 

Master Robert and I had not muqh to say to each other. 
Despite my jealousy, I could see how much better and kinder- 
faced he was than Albert, but I could not like him, as he was 
“in” with Uncle Simeon. The very fact that his face was good 
made me despise him the more for liking Uncle Simeon; I 
felt he was a traitor. He could not be “very much of it” or 
he would show much more plainly than he did what he thought 
of Uncle Simeon’s treatment of me. This I could see upset 
him, but he was too cowardly to say so. On the other hand, 
he knew nothing of the sly slaps and dark-corner kicks with 
which his dear friend favoured me. Jealousy was kept alive 
by the better treatment he got in the way of food and every- 
thing else, which he seemed to take for granted. Yet if the 
facts of the case were against him, instinct spoke on the other 
side. I knew that any one whose eyes looked at you in the 
same kind way as my Grandmother’s must, like her, be kind 
and good. I argued that he was horrid, I felt that he was 
kind. I was as sure he did not treat me well as I was that I 
would like it if he did. Once he made friendly advances. I 
shied off; toady to a toady of Uncle Simeon’s? Never! 
When I had rebuffed him, I Legan to reproach him with not 
making further efforts at friendliness. If he really wanted to, 


ROBBIE 


197 


he would try again. If I had been a jolly little girl with fine 
clothes, curly hair and dark bright eyes, he would be trying 
all day long. Why were these allurements denied me, why 
had I no single attractive quality? 

Now if ever in all recorded history there was a little girl 
ignorant of the bare existence of boy and girl sentiment and of 
all the normal notions that ordinary books, playmates and 
surroundings give to children, I was that little girl. Yet here 
at my first contact with a presentable young male of the hu- 
man species, I was a-sighing for charms to lure him. 

This struggle over the pros and cons of Master Robert raged 
within. We had little to say to each other. Uncle Simeon 
never left us alone together; watched us and made a careful 
third when Albert and Aunt Martha were not about. The 
first time we spoke to each other alone must have been two or 
three weeks after he came. Aunt and Uncle were both going 
out. 

“Albert,” he said, “don’t you leave your cousin and Robert 
alone. Entertain them, you know, while one is out, you — ha 
ha! — are the master of the house.” 

As soon as Albert, leaning out of the window, had seen his 
father safely round the corner, he went out too, for communion 
I suppose with his unsaved friends. 

“No sneaky tricks, mind!” he said to me, and looked the 
same injunction at Robert. 

“Why does he talk like that?” said the latter, as soon as he 
was gone. We looked at each other. “Do — do you really 
like him?” 

The implied tribute flattered me. I flung my new ally to the 
dogs. 

“Not very much,” I said. 

“At all?” 

“No, not at all — really.” 

“And — Mr. Greeber, do you like him?” 

“Do you think I do? You know all right. Do you?” 

“No.” He paused. “You don’t like it here at all, do you?” 

“Why?” 

“Because you don’t look as though you liked it”: awkwardly. 

“I know I don’t look as though I liked it,” I snapped. “I 
know I don’t look anything nice! We can’t all look lovely. 


198 


MARY LEE 


You don’t look like I do, so what does it matter to you? You 
haven’t much to abide. You don’t get it all day long.” 
Starving for sympathy I pushed it away. 

“No — o. I know. But I’m sorry.” 

“ Why are you sorry?” I would hold out in the grim for- 
tress of my loneliness, or I would taunt him to say something 
so plain, to attack so boldly, that he would force me to give in. 
I was holding out for a more complete surrender. 

“Why?” 

“Oh well, I don’t know, because — I mean — I think — I like 
you. You are not really like he said you were. I never 
thought it.” 

I pounced. “He said I was? What about him? What 
did he say? Tell me.” 

Aunt Martha came in and cut us short. 

That night in bed, in my usual Think I found how much hap- 
pier I was. I placed him high; excelling Miss Glory Clinker, 
equalling Brother Briggs and much nicer looking, nearing the 
Stranger, and falling short of my Grandmother only. That was 
my complete catalogue of friendly people. Yet why did he 
never take my part? Why had he not made it clearer to Uncle 
Simeon that he disliked him as he had told me he did, and 
disliked him most of all for ill-treating me? Over and above 
all, how could he sit at meals gorging himself on dainties and 
look calmly across the table at me with never enough to eat? 

Since his arrival food had improved, but not for me. The 
contrast was the more marked. At breakfast for instance, 
Robert began with porridge, of course with sugar and milk, 
then he had an egg, usually poached on a piece of buttered 
toast; or a rasher of bacon with lovely bread fried in the fat, 
and laver; or perhaps mackerel done in butter. Then he had 
as many slices of bread and butter as he wanted, spread with 
some of Aunt Martha’s home-made jam, whortleberry, rasp- 
berry or black currant (by what he was allowed to eat I 
gauged the mighty sum Uncle Vivian must be paying for 
board: I had no idea of money values but the sum must be 
vast, infinite). Uncle Simeon had much the same, less the 
jam. Albert was not only docked the jam, but his egg was 
merely boiled instead of poached and served on toast, or if it 
were bacon he had no laver and a much smaller piece of bread 


ROBBIE 


199 

fried in the fat. There was a heavy drop to Aunt Martha, 
who had porridge, and bread and butter with jam. I came 
last of all with porridge and jamless bread and butter; very 
often not even the latter because of punishments or “mortify- 
ings.” Note the careful grading. Robert got the most: 
there was a purse behind him. Uncle Simeon’s lavishness 
here was dictated by meanness: “If I feed the boy well, he 
stays; if he stays he pays.” For himself he was torn as 
always between meanness and greed. He compromised 
shrewdly by foregoing his jam, which he did not care for over- 
much. Meanness alone governed Albert’s ration, so the 
King’s son got less than the King. Aunt Martha received what 
her husband chose to allow her, as a good wife should. Spite 
as well as meanness apportioned to me, Hagar, least of all; 
though if my bigger portion of porridge were counted 
against her jam, Aunt Martha really fared no better than I 
did; and thin and pale she looked. Robert riled me most. 
It was natural for Uncle Simeon to be mean, greedy, vile. In 
Robert I felt it was wrong; like Methodies, he knew better . 
Kind brown eyes were all very well, but a poor set-off to a 
greedy little belly. One morning therefore when in the mid- 
dle of breakfast, just as he was beginning his poached egg, 
Robert said he felt sick, I neither felt sorry nor pretended to. 
Justice at last! I hoped he would be very, very sick. Uncle 
Simeon followed him out, fawning. 

“Look here child, eat this,” said Aunt Martha passing me 
Robert’s poached egg, “ ’twill do you good.” Kindly but 
fearfully: her usual struggle. She declined to share it with 
me, so I accepted. I was just munching the last delicious 
yellow mouthful, when Robert came back, looking still pale, 
but better. He saw what had happened, and flushed crimson. 
He saw what I thought of him and flushed deeper. 

That afternoon, when I was in my bedroom putting on my 
hat, there was a timid knocking. He walked in. I hardened 
my heart. 

“I’m sorry about breakfast, Mary,” he faltered. I knew 
his heart was beating fast. 

“Breakfast? What do you mean, Master Robert?” 

' “You know. The egg. I’m sorry — ” 

“Of course you are. Sorry I ate it.” 


200 MARY LEE 

He flushed. I developed a meticulous* interest in a pin- 
cushion. 

“No; sorry to see you eating it so hungrily. You know 
that’s what I meant. Now I know it’s all lies when he 
says eggs are bad for you and that you don’t like them 
and you refuse them when he offers them and that you 
mustn’t eat much of anything. It’s all a lie, because he 
doesn’t want you to eat things, because he hates you or be- 
cause he’s mean. I always thought it funny you never had 
nice things. I asked him three times and he said you were 
always taking medicine, and the doctor said you must eat 
very little and always very plain. You must have thought me 
horrid.” 

“I did. I’m sorry. Oh, the liar, the mean wretch, he 
dare tell you all that? Look here, we’ve begun now, haven’t 
we, so I’m going to tell you what I know of him; everything. 
First you must answer a question. Do you just not like Uncle, 
or do you really hate him, hate him like this?” I clenched my 
fists and ground my teeth together. 

“Yes, now I do; he’s never done anything to me, but I’ve 
liked him a bit less every day I’ve been here. Now I hate him, 
like you do.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you, he’s a mean, cruel, wicked man. He 
beats and cuffs and pinches me when you’re not looking. He 
canes me till I bleed. He starves me so as to make as much 
money as he can out of what my Grandmother pays him. The 
first morning I came I said No, when he offered me one mis- 
erable spoonful of his egg. I’ve never touched one since, and 
he’s told you all this about my not liking eggs at all. I do 
take medicine, but it’s because I’m ill and don’t get enough to 
eat. He’s mean and he hates me, that’s why he starves me : one 
as much as the other. He’s nice to you because you’re rich and 
important and have friends and relations. Do they pay a lot 
of money for you?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“They must do or you wouldn’t get so much to eat. Oh, 
the beast, he’s always talking as though he was so good and 
then he starves me and gives me sneakish blows in the dark. 
He praises the Lord with his lips and he’s got the devil in his 


ROBBIE 


201 

heart. He flatters with his tongue, but his inward part is very 
wickedness — ” 

I stopped short, fancying I heard a noise outside, and looked 
out into the passage. There he was, skulking as usual, making 
pretence to rummage in a cupboard just outside the door. 

“What are you doing, Uncle?” I asked weakly, very 
weakly. 

“What are you doing, one asks.” 

“I just — opened the door. ...” 

“ Ah ,” he said, slipping away. 

“Has he heard?” asked Robert fearfully. 

“Every word. I don’t care. He knows the truth now; he 
can’t treat me worse than he has done. I hate him. Every- 
thing is hateful. All the world is against me always; ’tis all 
beating and starving and meanness and misery; and nobody 
loves me. I wish I’d never been born, I do, I do.” I broke 
down and sat on the bed, sobbing bitterly. 

“Don’t, Mary,” huskily, “everybody doesn’t hate you, I 
don’t.” He sat beside me and put his arm on my shoulder. 

That was the beginning of happiness. 

I cried more than ever, but they were other tears. 

“Don’t cry, Mary, don’t cry, please. I like you. Tell me 
you know I do. I’m going to do something, I’m going to help 
you somehow. I’ll never touch another egg unless you do too, 
and if he stops mine, I’ll write to Uncle Vivian and tell him 
why. I shall ask Uncle Vivian to let me go somewhere else as 
soon as I can; but you must get away first, you must ask your 
Grandmother to have you back with her right away. Mary 
dear, don’t cry.” 

He was on the border line himself. He screwed a dirty lit- 
tle handkerchief into his eyes. The other arm was still on 
my shoulder. He was crying too. Then I comforted him, 
and found it a joy greater even than being comforted. 

“We must go now,” I said, gietting up. “Come on, Master 
Robert,” smiling; smiling being a thing I achieved perhaps 
once a year. 

“No, and don’t say Robert either. Say Robbie. Uncle 
Vivian and all the people I like call me that.” 

There were two pairs of red eyes at the tea table that night, 


202 


MARY LEE 

and one pair of steel blue ones which observed them. From 
that moment, the political situation of No. 1 the Quay was 
entirely transformed. In the field of domestic economy there 
was a more striking change still. Next morning, I almost 
reeled when a boiled egg was set before me, though as the por- 
ridge was cut down by nearly half, my Uncle spiced his defeat 
with triumph. Openly he treated me no worse, though he gave 
me a savage kick in the hall that night. I knew he was saving 
up for something dreadful. Once the mood of passion and 
defiance had passed away, I was more afraid of him than ever. 
He hated Robbie now, while striving not to show it. Robbie 
showed his feelings sometimes and was openly surly. The 
short-lived Albert-Mary entente collapsed once for all, shat- 
tered by the Mary-Robert alliance. 

The new friendship caused a veritable revolution in all my 
ideas. Now, whenever I was brooding or thinking away in my 
usual bitter fashion, I would say to myself, “Think of it, 
quickly, quickly,” and I would feel again his hand on my 
shoulder; he would comfort me and I him. I re-lived it over 
and over again. It was the first purely happy vision I had 
ever conjured up. To Robbie it meant much less. I decided 
he was a nice little boy, kind and decent- hearted ; he had been 
sorry to see me unhappy and he had been glad to comfort me. 
It was an impulse; not more. He liked me, he pitied me, but 
the whole thing meant very little to him. 

One day a letter came from his Uncle Vivian. 

He came to me joyfully. “Hurrah! Hurrah! I shall be 
going away soon. I’m ever so glad.” 

“In every way?” with a sneer; hungrily. 

He flushed crimson, as we do when any one surprises us in 
thoughtless egotism; when another lays bare to us a selfish- 
ness we were too selfish to have seen. Or else it was the cruel 
injustice of what I said, or both: the good reason and the 
bad. 

“You know I didn’t mean that. When I get to Uncle Vivian 
I’ll tell him to write to your Grandmother and tell her all about 
it and have you taken away. She’d listen to my uncle. But 
wait, you must get away from here before that. It would be 
dreadful if you were here alone for a bit between my going 


ROBBIE 203 

and the time you’d be able to get away, if we waited for Uncle 
Vivian to write — ” 

“He’d kill me if he dared. Can’t you write to Uncle Vivian 
now, so that he could write to my Grandmother at once? I 
can’t write. Uncle Simeon reads all my letters to her.” 

“A letter of mine mightn’t reach Uncle Vivian. The last 
time he wrote to me was from Paris in France; he said he was 
going further south for Christmas, that’s somewhere much fur- 
ther away, and said I need not write again as he would be back 
for the New Year. We’re quite near Christmas now, so it’s 
too late. I’ll tell you my plan. Now, the day I go away, Mr. 
Greeber is sure to be at the railway station to see me off. The 
minute we’ve left the house you must be dressed and ready to 
run away and walk back to Tawborough; your Grandmother 
couldn’t be angry if you told her all about him. Then Uncle 
Vivian will write as soon as I see him, and you won’t have been 
alone with Mr. Greeber in the house for a minute.” 

“ ’Tisn’t Grandmother, ’tis Aunt Jael. And suppose only 
Uncle Simeon goes with you to the station to see you off. 
What about Albert and Aunt Martha? Besides, he’ll make 
me come too. He’d do it to please you, knowing you’d like it, 
though out of spite he’d want me not to, because he knows 
I’d like to. It all depends whether he wants to be nice to 
you more than to be nasty to me. Nice to you, I think, most 
of the two, because he can be nasty enough to me the second 
you’re gone.” 

“You could say you felt sick.” 

“That’s a lie. Besides, that might make him want to make 
me come all the more, if he thought it would pain me or make 
me feel worse to come. I don’t tell lies, if he does. Unless 
of course, I really felt sick. I could take something and make 
myself sick, and then ’twould be true. But then Aunt Martha 
would say she’d stay with me while the rest of you went to the 
railway station. No, the best thing is to pretend very much 
I’d like to come, which of course I would, and then he won’t 
let me. You might pretend to quarrel with me the last day; 
that would help. The real trouble is Aunt Jael; she’d get in- 
to a frightful rage and send me back; and when I came back, 
’twould be a hundred times worse. He’d kill me.” 


204 MARY LEE 

“You said your Aunt Jael hated Mr. Greeber. If she knew 
he’d like it, are you sure she’d send you back; when she knew 
too that you’d run away for fear of your life? I’m sure she 
wouldn’t do that.” 

“You don’t know her. No, my plan is this: to write a letter 
somehow to Grandmother, who’d talk to Aunt Jael and sort of 
prepare her for my running away. I’ll write it in bed tonight, 
it’s the only place I can where he’s not watching me ; and we’ll 
post it tomorrow afternoon, sometime on the walk when Albert 
isn’t looking. I’ll tell my Grandmother about the canings, 
and how he half starves me. Aunt Jael hates him so much that 
I think there’s a chance. Then I needn’t rim away at all. 
Grandmother would come to fetch me herself.” 

The letter was duly written that night. I jumped out of bed 
and hid it in the bottom of my chest of drawers, in a far corner 
of the drawer between two white cotton chemises. It would be 
safe there till the next afternoon. After dinner next day I 
came up to put on my hat and to get the letter. I put my hand 
in the corner underneath the chemises. The letter was not 
there! I pulled the top chemise right out. lhere the letter 
was after all, but at the other end of the chemise. It had been 
moved. The garment was only eighteen or twenty inches long, 
but I remembered perfectly I had put the letter at the outside- 
end of the drawer and now it was right at the other end of the 
chemise, near the middle of the drawer. Yet there was my 
handwriting, there was the envelope: no one had tampered with 
it. It must be my over-suspicious mind. Aunt Martha had 
been tidying my clothes, or putting the clean washing away 
and so had moved the letter without seeing anything. . . . We 
posted it that afternoon. In a couple of days came my Grand- 
mother’s reply. 

The first sentence made my heart sick. “Your uncle writes 
me — tells me he has destroyed an untruthful letter, full of un- 
truthful complaints that you had written me without his knowl- 
edge — how grieved he and your Aunt Martha are — how they 
do everything to make you happy — your Aunt Jael is griev- 
ously annoyed — your loving Grandmother is disappointed — 
Always come to me, my dear, for help, but don’t give way to 
discontent so easily. Reflect always what your dear mother 
had to put up with, lake up thy cross and walk!” 


ROBBIE 


205 


This letter Uncle Simeon never asked to see, but he had had 
one for himself from my Grandmother by the same post. He 
said nothing, but looked at me from time to time with mali- 
cious triumph, meaning “Revenge is near; it will be sweet. 
Wait till this fine young friend of yours is out of the way. 
One has a whip, you remember, ha, ha, one has a whip!” 

A few days later Robbie had a letter from his Uncle Vivian 
announcing his return to England for December 30th and ar- 
ranging for Robbie to leave Torribridge on New Year’s Eve, 
now only three weeks away. 

New Year’s Eve then was the day, and though I did even- 
tually fly from Torribridge to Tawborough within a few hours 
of the time we fixed, it befell very differently from anything 
we had planned or foreseen. 

Heaven was dark; yet the clouds at last had begun to break. 
For always, eternally, I could re-make the moments that had 
been, and live and cry and laugh and love it over again. 

I pretended his arm was round me each night as I fell asleep. 


CHAPTER XVII: CHRISTMAS NIGHT 


“What do you do for Christmas?” asked Robbie a day or 
two later. “It’s only a week tomorrow.” 

“What do you mean — do for Christmas?” 

“Why, people coming to stay, and a party perhaps. You 
know.” 

“What do you mean? The only party we ever had was on 
Aunt Jael’s seventieth birthday and that’s in August.” 

“It must be different at your house from anywhere else. 
People have a jolly sort of time, a lot of people in the house 
and that kind of thing.” 

“There was something about it in Westward Ho ! the book he 
stole from me and burned just before you came. It said some- 
thing about ‘happy sports and mummers’ plays,’ and cakes and 
ale and some word like flapdragons. It’s what worldly people 
do, I suppose, and sinners, but not us; I’ve never heard of it 
with the Saints.” 

Robbie was too wise to attack priggery-piety in the open. “I 
don’t know about all that. You do talk funnily; your Grand- 
mother seems to be different from other people. You must 
know all the special things you do at Christmas, all the special 
things you eat — ” 

“I don’t. What are they?” 

“Oh, roast goose and turkey and plum-pudding and mince 
pies. Then for tea the big Christmas cake, crammed with 
raisins and covered with almond paste and icing sugar with 
crystallized fruit on top and those little green bits like candied 
peel — not really candied peel, it’s some name I forget, any- 
way it’s nice. If you’re a little boy you’re allowed to stay in 
the dining-room all the same and eat all the walnuts and dates 
you want and drink a little port or madeira! What do you 
have for Christmas dinner?” 

“Hash,” I replied enviously, “and a roly-poly pudding with 
no jam, or hardly any, for afterwards.” 

Incredulity seemed to struggle with pity in his mind. 

206 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 207 

“I’m sorry. It sounds so funny. I didn’t know there were 
people like that. The villagers are just the same. Mrs. 
Richards down at the Blue Dragon makes the biggest Christ- 
mas cake I’ve ever seen, lovely bluey-looking icing with 
preserved cherries in it, those big red ones, and almond paste 
an inch thick. Everywhere it’s the great day in the year for 
feasting.” 

“Why?” I asked. “Why should Christmas Day be the 
great day for feasting? It’s the day Jesus was born; why 
should that make people guzzle? A funny way of keeping 
His birthday, eating and drinking. I know what it is, it’s 
what the Papists do : eat all day. That’s it, it’s Popish.” My 
voice rose combatively in the good cause of plain and Protes- 
tant living, hash and heaven. 

Weakly or wisely, he skirted the theological issue. “Don’t 
be silly. Besides it’s not only what you eat yourself. At 
Christmas time you always give a lot away to the poor people. 
Uncle Vivian gives heaps of logs and firewood and coal all 
round the village, and gives geese to the tenants and heaps of 
other things ; giving things away is a good enough way of keep- 
ing Christmas, isn’t it? There are presents. You get pres- 
ents, don’t you?” 

“Never.” 

Here I was wrong, for on Christmas morning a parcel came 
addressed to Miss Mary Lee. It was the first I had ever re- 
ceived, except some new winter underclothes Grandma had sent 
me from Tawborough, and I undid it eagerly. Inside was a 
box of colours. I found from a little note inside the cover of 
the box that Great-Uncle John had sent me this in addition to 
his usual half-sovereign. This made me ponder. I had heard 
vaguely of his half-sovereign at long intervals of time, but had 
never thought of it in the light of a Christmas present. I had 
never seen or touched it; it was “put by” or otherwise dimly 
dealt with by Grandmother and Aunt Jael. 

This box of colours was the finest thing I had yet possessed. 
No doubt the art of mixing paint was then in its infancy, and 
this box provided me with but a few of the simplest colours; 
no doubt a mere half crown box of today is superior both in 
number of colours and quality of paint. No doubt, but ig- 


208 


MARY LEE 


norance was bliss; no such odious comparisons came to cloud 
my joy. I had never seen a paint box before except through a 
shop window; and now I had one in my own hands and was 
gloating with all the joy of proprietorship over the twelve lit- 
tle pans before me and the high adventurous names with which 
each was labelled. 

Gamboge, yellow-ochre; cobalt, Prussian blue; green-bice, 
Hooker’s green; carmine, crimson-lake; raw-sienna, burnt- 
sienna; sepia and ivory black. There was also a mysterious 
little tube tucked away in a niche at one end and labelled 
Chinese white, the contents of which oozed out when pressed, 
like a white tape-worm. These names were a delight. Car- 
mine: the colour which Brother Quappleworthy painted his 
sins in discourse. Crimson-lake: which called up a vision of 
a great sea of Precious Blood with wave-crests of scarlet-foam. 

Robbie had several presents: a box of soldiers, a picture 
book, some sweetmeats and money. 

“That’s much less than usual,” he said, not too kindly. “I 
expect there’s more waiting for me at Uncle Vivian’s.” 

Albert was bare and giftless, for his half sovereign from 
Great-Uncle John meant no more to him than to me, being in- 
stantly put (or not put) into “the bank” by Uncle Simeon. 
He was naturally jealous, envied Robbie’s wealth and luck, 
cursed his father’s meanness in giving him nothing, reviled 
Uncle John for sending me the paint-box as well as the half 
sovereign, and to himself no corresponding extra. All this 
well distributed hostility he could vent on me alone. The 
means of his vengeance should be my solitary ewe-lamb. He 
waited his opportunity. 

Robbie went out to dinner, invited by some friends of his 
uncle’s. So Uncle Simeon brought a cane in to dinner, lodged 
it on the edge of the table, and allowed me to taste it now and 
then. I espied neither goose nor turkey, cakes nor ale, port 
nor madeira; though there was a much better pudding than 
usual, a suet one made in a basin with sultanas and citron peel 
which bore — alas! — an awful and edible likeness to the gen- 
uine popish article. After dinner Aunt Martha, who said she 
had a headache, retired to her bedroom to lie down, and later 
on Uncle Simeon went out, his big Bible under one arm and his 
big umbrella under the other, to expound the former to a bed- 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 209 

ridden old female Saint he visited twice a week, a second cousin 
of Brother Atonement Gelder’s. 

Albert and I were left alone together in the dining-room. 
It was perhaps not more than three o’clock, but it was a cold, 
dark day and the room was already dusk. Uncle Simeon was 
hardly out of the house before Albert came up to the table at 
which I was just settling down to begin using my treasure, 
snatched the box away, dipped the biggest brush into my cup 
of water and began roughly digging it into the pans of colour. 
Then he splashed water over all the pans and made great waste- 
ful daubs on the palette. 

“Don’t, Albert,” I pleaded, “please don’t.” 

“I shall, I shall — ugh” (his usual grunt), “nothing will hap- 
pen to me if I do. It’s no good your whining, I’m going to 
spoil it, out of spite! because I want to! Try sneaking to 
father if you dare. Ha , ha, I know what you told Robert 
Grove about father, nasty little sneaks and liars both of you. 
Father’s on my side now, so you won’t get much by going to 
him; and if you did I’d bang you afterwards.” 

He took up the cup and poured water into the box, smearing 
all the colours together with the brush. The little brute was 
ruining my treasure before my eyes. Appeal was useless, so 
I made a deft attempt to snatch. For reply he struck me heav- 
ily with his fist over the ear. I screamed out half in pain, 
half in rage, and made another snatch. This time, throwing 
the box on to the ground, he struck me on the shoulder with 
the full force of his fist and sent me flying. I fell down, half 
stunned for a moment, when another voice broke into the room. 

“You beast, you brute,” I heard — and saw Robbie, back 
sooner than we expected. He slammed the door behind him, 
went straight across the room to Albert, and tried to seize his 
arm. 

“Here, you leave me alone. She hit me first, when I wanted 
to use her filthy paint box, and the mean cat said I shouldn’t, 
and started snatching and scratching so I had to push her away.” 

“Oh, you liar!” I cried. 

“Then she banged her paint box on the floor in her rage, 
and came for me again, then I punched her, and serve her 
right.” 

“ ’Tis all lies, lies, lies.” 


210 


MARY LEE 


“Believe her, do you?” sneered Albert, lowering at Robbie, 
“she’s a nice one to believe. Do you know what her father 
did? I do; ugh, ugh, she’s a nice one like he was. Look 
here, just keep your hands off me.” 

Albert struck a first blow and the two boys were soon fight- 
ing like savages. My head was still aching from the two 
blows that Albert had given me; I forgot them and every- 
thing else in the excitement of the struggle. Blows on head, 
face and shoulders were exchanged. With every stout one 
Albert received I exulted; every one of Albert’s that hurt 
Robbie hurt me too. Albert was sturdy and strong and even 
broader than Robbie; on the whole he was getting the best 
of it; I felt sick and apprehensive. I prayed fervently to 
God for Robbie to win, promising lordly penances and im- 
possible virtues in return. I would give all my life and 
health to comforting the heathen if Robbie might win. I 
would be burnt or eaten alive — if Robbie might win. I em- 
ployed all the magic I knew, and counted frenzied thirty- 
sevens between each blow — for luck to Robbie. Prayer is 
not always answered by return, and Albert’s right fist now 
landed a heavy blow on Robbie’s left ear, which nearly felled 
him; he tottered and paled. So did I as I resolved to inter- 
vene. I would fight till I fainted — to prevent Robbie being 
beaten. I clenched my teeth and hovered awkwardly nearer, 
wondering how to get in my first blow (or scratch) — when 
Robbie recovered suddenly and crashed with his fist between 
Albert’s eyes. Now it was the latter’s turn to stagger. My 
spirits rose. Now Albert picked himself up again. Both 
were battered. Robbie had a bleeding ear (to match my 
own) , Albert a black eye and broken nose. The fight went on. 
Robbie began to get the upper hand; I could see the loser’s 
look on Albert’s face. “Robbie will win! Robbie will win^” 
said Instinct exulting. I thought for a moment of that tame 
fixture, Susan Durgles versus Seth Baker, when my main 
emotion was mere pity for Seth: water to the wine of joy 
now coursing through my veins as I watched Robbie pound 
Albert more victoriously every moment. Albert was now des- 
perate, came closer, tried to grip Robbie and push him to the 
ground. For a moment prize fight turned to wrestling bout. 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 211 

The harmony of a choir, singing carols on the Quay out- 
side, fell suddenly on our ears. It may have been the Parish 
Church choir, or a glee party from the Wesleyan Chapel: 
sinners, in any case, as Miss Glory would have said. They 
were singing a carol with a friendly wave-like tune, merry, 
yet sad too, as Christmas songs should be: It came upon the 
midnight clear — though I did not know the words. The tune 
revived the fighting. The boys got free from each other’s 
grip; blows were resumed. The end came at last with a 
swift, terrific stroke on Albert’s shoulder, which knocked 
him flat. In a second Robbie was kneeling on his body 
and had pinioned his arms. The victim scowled, the 
victor showed modest pride, the spectator exulted like a 
savage. 

“There now,” said Robbie, “that’s what you get for striking 
a girl. Worse another time. Say you’re sorry you hit Mary. 
Say you were a brute.” 

Albert scowled, growled, made efforts to get free, 
failed. 

“No good, you’ll stay here till you say it; T’m sorry I hit 
Mary and I was a brute.’ ” 

Albert wriggled again, perceived that all endeavours would 
be fruitless, and surrendered. “Well, then, you great bully. 
Sorry — hit — Mary — and — was — brute. There you are, now let 
me go.” 

“Not until you’ve made one more promise, ‘I’ll never hit 
Mary again.’ ” 

For some reason Albert obeyed with alacrity this time. 
“I’ll never strike Mary again.” 

Robbie released him, and walked towards the door saying 
shyly to me: “Come to my bedroom, and help bathe my face; 
it’s awful.” 

I followed him upstairs. Just as we reached the landing 
Albert came out and shouted. “Ugh, you nasty beasts. I 
promised I’d never strike Mary again and I won’t — never want 
to see her ugly face again — but I’ll see that father does all 
right. This very night too, as soon as ever he comes in. 
He’ll make you cringe and bleed; he’ll make the flesh fly. 
You too, you bully, you overdressed flashy big — ” 


212 MARY LEE 

We went into Robbie’s bedroom ana stopped to hear no 
more. 

“It’s not much good,” said Robbie, smiling mournfully, as 
he washed the blood from his ears and face, “because I shall 
get hurt much more when Mr. Greeber comes in. That beast 
downstairs is sure to set him on. I think he would dare to 
flog me this time, because he’d be able to say to Uncle Vivian 
that I’d half killed Albert.” 

“Yes, he’d say ‘one felt it one’s painful duty after young 
Master Robert’s brutal attack on one’s own dear son,’ and 
that you had really hurt Albert. Which you have,” I con- 
cluded with satisfaction. 

“Still, it’ll be nothing to what he’ll do to you if he gets you 
alone; so you must get away the same day as me; or sooner 
would be best.” 

“No, sooner wouldn’t do, because then he’d flog you worse; 
he’d be sure to know you’d helped me get away.” 

“Yes, my first plan is best; while they’re at the station see- 
ing me off you must run away to Tawborough or take the 
coach, because we’ve enough money for that now. Here’s the 
half-sovereign, my present, you know; the half-crown mightn’t 
be enough and I’ve nothing in between — ” 

The door, opening softly, cut him short. Uncle Simeon, 
very pale and slimy and cat-like — himself at his worst — was 
followed by Albert, also at his worst, with an ugly black eye 
and an uglier leer. 

“No, father,” he whined, “not one; both. Flog ’em both, 
father, both of ’em.” 

Albert’s disappointed whine seemed to mean that his father 
might not dare to touch Robbie. I was glad for Robbie’s 
sake; what my own fate would be I hardly dared to think. 
I shrank from him into the seat of the window sill. He took 
a long coil of cord out of his pocket, and came towards — not 
me — but Robbie. What, would you dare? Was Robbie, after 
all, the victim, and I, if only for the moment, the one to 
escape? I must do myself the justice of noting that for once 
in my life at any rate I was sorry to bear the easier part: 

I would gladly have chosen to take the beating for Robbie, 
would bravely have played the Royal Prince’s whipping-girl. 
He bound Robbie with the cord hand and foot to the bedpost, 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 213 

his own bedpost of course; for it all took place in his bed- 
room, where Uncle Simeon had surprised us. Uncle Simeon 
went out of the room for a moment, leaving Albert to watch 
us. 

There was two minutes’ absolute silence. The three children 
looked at each other. We waited. 

He came back, in his right hand the long heralded whip; 
a kind of cat-o’-nine-tails for domestic use, with five tails only 
instead of nine; these were made of cord, with three knots 
each at intervals, and were fastened to a piece of thick rope, 
which Uncle Simeon wielded. An evil-looking thing. 

Robbie did not wince. He would not while I was by. But 
I lost all control of myself, and, for the first time, burst out 
openly against Uncle Simeon. I flew up to him, and with 
fierce feebleness clutched his wrist. 

“Don’t you dare touch him,” I cried, in a treble shriek. “I 
dare you to whip him. You cruel, horrible man.” 

“Cruel horrible man,” he sneered. “Bah! A fine one you 
are to call one that; you, your father’s daughter every inch of 
you. Cruel horrible man, forsooth! — Go and call him that, 
your own dear, kind, loving father who drove your dear 
mother into an early grave and mocked her when she was ly- 
ing there; a heartless whoremongering beast who spent all the 
time he spared from stews and brothels in hounding her to 
death with his cruelties; unfit to untie the shoe of a humble 
Christian like oneself, frail and sinful though one doubtless 
is. You’re like him, body and soul. Come, loose hold!” 

The vile words stung me for a moment, but when he 
wrenched my hand from his wrist, scratching at it savagely 
with his nails, I cried with redoubled fury: “Don’t you dare 
to whip him, don’t you dare.” 

“Whip him? Whip him?” he purred with bland enquiry, 
“Who can be meant by ‘him’? Not Master Robert surely? 
One would not dream of punishing one whose only sin is to be 
led into evil paths by another. One must tie him up, to be 
sure, lest he should be led into the evil path of interfering with 
a certain little duty one owes to one’s Lord, one’s little son, 
and one’s own poor self. Quick, off with your blouse and 
skirt!” 

He gnashed his teeth. Even at that moment it fascinated 


214 


MARY LEE 


me to watch how curiously the muscles under his cheek 
twitched when he was on cruelty bent. There must be a 
cruelty muscle. 

I stood before him in vest and petticoat, pale and limp with 
fright, a pitiable, cowering object: the sort of rabbit the ser- 
pent loves. I had felt and seen hard blows that same day; 
now too Aunt JaePs masterpieces flitted in dour procession 
through my mind : the rope end, the day I sucked the 
acid drops, the three blows of the thorned stick after Robin- 
son Crewjoe, the great flogging with the butt end of her stick 
when I said that Proverbs was the nastiest book in the Bible. 
These were as nothing to what was coming now. I lifted my 
eyes and for one second looked into his. I shall never again, 
please God, see a look so cruel, so craven, so cad-like. There 
was spite in it, and hate, and fear. Yet his fear was as noth- 
ing to mine. 

Whip in hand he came towards me to catch hold. There 
could be no hope. Aunt Martha was not to be seen; in any 
case what could she have done? Albert was kneeling hope- 
fully on the bed, Robbie’s bed, to get a better view of the sport. 
Robbie was bound hand and foot, looking hate at Uncle 
Simeon; wretchedness, sympathy and encouragement at me. 
His lips were tight together so that he should not cry. Here 
was Simeon Greeber approaching me. He looked like the 
devil; the idea seized me, he was the devil, the Personal Devil 
himself; now I knew. But here lay hope: through the devil’s 
enemy, the Lord God Almighty. Moved by an insane impulse, 
I went down on my knees on the bare floor. 

“Oh, God,” I cried, “save me from him, now, somehow! 
Save me, and if it be Thy will, strike him dead!” 

I was cut rudely short. He clutched my shoulder, his claw 
striking cold and damp through my vest, and pulled me 
roughly to my feet. 

“My Lord, my Lord, how she blasphemes! One will 
avenge it, Lord, one will avenge.” He dragged me into the 
middle of the room. 

In that moment a strange thing happened. The sudden 
sweetness of an old Christmas hymn smote our ears. It was 
the carollers again: they must have moved up the Quay, for 
now they were singing just outside the house: 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 215 

Hark the herald angels si-ing 
Glory to the new-born King — 

For an instant he was unnerved, but for an instant only, and 
with 


Peace on earth and mercy mi-ild 

the first stroke of the whip fell across my hack. 

The memory comes back to me in nightmare. I see the 
honey-yellow face ghastly against the growing darkness of the 
room. I see the coarse little brute gloating on the bed. I see 
the young prisoner at the bed-post flushed with rage and pity, 
biting his lips manfully. I hear the voices of the singers out 
on the Quay mocking me with merry Christmas hymns. To 
this day I can never hear the opening notes of The Herald 
Angels without starting back, and living over again for a 
moment all the horror. For all my fear and bodily agony, I 
would not cry out. I would not give Robbie the pain nor 
Uncle Simeon the pleasure. The whip tore my legs and body 
and back. I bled all over. He thrashed me till I was faint 
with pain ; till he could thrash no longer. Then he kicked me 
and I fell half-dazed to the ground, where as a final tribute 
from his humble if Christian person he spat in my face. As 
I lay I heard vaguely the singers outside. The voices now 
seemed dreamlike and far-away in their last triumphant 
unison : 

Mild he lays His glory by-y. 

Born that man no more may di-ie, 

Born to raise the sons of earth, 

Born to-o give them second birth. 

Hark, the Herald Angels sing, 

Glory-y to the new-born-king! 

In the following silence I heard his voice, far away too it 
seemed. “Yes, you’d better go at once; dear Mr. Vivian 
Fortescue would not have you stay another day to be so cor- 
rupted.” 

I felt another kick. “Come, up with you now to bed.” 

I rose painfully, but was too weak to stand, and tumbled. 
Albert guffawed. At last I got up and crept to the door. 

“Good night,” he smiled. “Bid us good night, if you please. 
Let there be no malice, no evil rage in your heart, for this 


216 MARY LEE 

little foretaste of correction. Let there be no evil spirit of 
revenge. One harbours none oneself. One forgives, forgives 
freely. Later on when Master Robert is gone away one may 
begin to think of the just punishment that is due. One must 
not shrink, grievously though it pains one. It is the Lord’s 
will, and His will be done. One forgives you, my child, for- 
gives you freely, despite all the wickedness and trouble you 
have brought into the house. One forgives, yet one must 
punish.” 

I crawled upstairs to my bedroom. I had only my vest to 
take off — or tear off, for it was stuck to me with blood. When 
I was naked I looked at myself by the candle-light in the long 
wardrobe mirror. My white breastless little body was covered 
with blood and dark strokes and great weals. I bathed the 
worst places with the ice-cold water in my basin and then 
rubbed in plenty of the mixed whitening with which Grand- 
mother had supplied me. It relieved me a little, and I got 
into bed. 

Soon the door opened. My heart beat fast. It was only 
Aunt Martha, bringing my Christmas supper. Not flap-drag- 
ons, nor raisins nor almond paste; just a small basin of mut- 
ton gruel. 

“I’m sorry you’ve been so naughty, child, and have had to 
be corrected.” 

She produced two apples craftily from her pocket, put them 
on the bedside pedestal with the gruel, and went out. I did 
not touch them. I was too sick and wretched to eat. 

Nor could I sleep. The long night began; pain, hate and 
wretchedness possessed me, first one more than another, and 
each in turn. My rough woollen nightgown chafed my sores; 
the bed, which was never a soft one, hurt me everywhere. My 
whole body smarted and ached. Why had I to suffer such 
pain? Why was I starved and bullied and abused and beaten 
and half-killed? Why had a man, professing to be one of the 
Lord’s own people, the right to flog me so? Oh, the tyrant, I 
could only bear to think of him by picturing to myself a glo- 
rious day when my turn would come, when I would cat-o’-nine- 
tail him till he fainted and bang his face against a stone wall 
till his pale features were one red indistinguishable mush. 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 


217 


Hate, hate, a bitter ointment, had eased my pain; hate for him, 
hate for the world, and by silly bitter moments the Devil’s 
temptation to hate God. From hate for the tyrant I came to 
pity for the victim, which was self-pity, so sweet a misery that 
it drove away all other trouble. I was the wretchedest of all 
God’s creatures, the wretchedest being since Creation. For 
me all things were unjust. Robbie and Albert were never 
treated as I was; in this alone were they alike, and all chil- 
dren save me alike. Every little child I saw in the street was 
happy, free, well-treated. Every one else had brothers and 
sisters, and friends — and a mother. 

The old new bitterness returned; why had my mother been 
taken away? She would have protected me and cherished me. 
I tried to think more clearly than ever before what she would 
have looked like if still alive; like Grandmother, I fancied, 
with the same kind gentle face, but taller and younger and 
warmer. I should have nestled to her bosom, she would have 
taken me in her arms. I should have comforted her. She 
would have loved me. The agony of the thought was torture. 
I needed her to madness. I could lie down no longer. I 
knelt up in bed and my soul cried out for her. Involuntarily 
my voice was crying too, “Mother, mother!” 

I uttered the words without knowing, as it were, that I spoke; 
they were wrung from me without my consent; it was my soul 
not my mind which spoke. And I knew this time that the 
prayer would be answered; I had the sure supernatural in- 
stinct that my mother was coming to me. She had been 
mouldering in Tawborough graveyard for ten years now, yet 
I knew she was coming. I did not call again, but waited in 
intense expectation. I clasped my hands in an agony of hope. 

She came. Right up to the bedside she moved in a white 
robe. She spoke. Her voice seemed nearer to me than if it 
had been at the bedside; inside me, in my very soul. Mother 
was with me, in me, around me. 

“I am here, Mary, I love you. You want to know that I 
love you, and I have come to show you that I do.” 

The darkness was made radiant by the white figure before 
me. I was bathed in a new presence, and I knew that it was 
love. I was still kneeling on the bed and my face was on a 


218 


MARY LEE 


level with my mother’s. I bent forward to fulfil my supreme 
need; I went nearer, my arms were closing round her — and 
she was gone. 

My arms closed round empty space. I came back to reality. 
I was kneeling on the cold bed. And she was gone. The feel- 
ing of her presence faded away; the sense of love and comfort 
was abiding. It abides with me still. I was sad, forlorn, but 
happy to think she had gone back to heaven, and that she loved 
me enough to come ten million miles to comfort me. She had 
shown me the truth of the resurrection, of the immortality of 
the soul ; and something far greater, the truth of love. 

Hate, pain and weariness were forgotten in the joy of my 
mother’s love, I nestled in it, sheltered in it, clasped it to me, 
and soon it was wooing me to sleep. 

Then — a soft tread in the room — and I was wide awake in a 
flash. The moon did not light the corner of the room by the 
door, but I seemed to see a white figure standing there. Was 
it my angel mother again? 

“Mother,” I cried faintly. I did not feel the divine sureness 
of her presence I had known before. It could not be. Yet 
I heard the soft tread again. The white form moved nearer. 

Uncle Simeon! Pity, pity, he had come to flog me naked, 
torture me in the darkness, rub salt into my wounds as he had 
threatened; to kill me. I hid my face under the bedclothes in 
terror, then withdrew as quickly for fear he would stifle me 
beneath them. His ghostlike figure was still there. “Mother 
— God — Jesus!” 

“Mary, don’t be frightened.” 

It was Robbie. 

Reaction from fear was so strong and overwhelming that for 
a moment I could not think. ’The first words I could speak 
were prompted by the fear that had fled, just as the life that 
has gone enables a tiger still to spring, though shot through the 
heart a second before. 

“Hush, hush,” I whispered. “Don’t make a sound. What 
is it? Why are you here? Think, if he found us! Oh, you 
frightened me. First, I thought it was Mother, then that it 
was him” 

“Mother?” said Robbie. “Are you dreaming, Mary? Are 
you awake properly? I’ve got bare feet, and he can’t hear 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 219 

whispering. Besides he’s snoring. I listened outside his door 
and it’s nearly midnight.” 

“Why have you come?” 

“To tell you I’m going away either tomorrow or the day 
after. He has written to Uncle Vivian’s housekeeper, Mrs. 
Venn, telling her to expect me back straight away; and he has 
forbidden me to try to see you before I go; dared me to. . . . 
This is our only chance, Mary. I overheard him saying that 
tomorrow morning very early, before breakfast, he’s going to 
lock you in the attic and keep you locked there till after I’m 
gone away. Well — I came to tell you that — and — to say good- 
bye.” He paused and took courage. “And to tell you that 
when I’m a man I’ve made up my mind to come back and beat 
him till he bleeds as he has made you bleed.” 

He stopped and waited. I knew what he was waiting for. I 
trembled, shook like an aspen leaf ; my heart, soul, brain, were 
all aflood with what he longed for me to say. 

“Why don’t you come nearer?” huskily. He came a little 
nearer and waited again, pretending, for all the world like a 
grown human being, that he did not see the invitation he longed 
for. 

“You are cold,” I said (truth ready to my hand for use). 
“Come and lie under the coverlet.” The first word over, it 
was easier. 

“It must be hurting you horribly,” he said. He stood by the 
bedside in a last moment of hesitation. 

“Come,” I repeated. He climbed on the bed beside me. 
“Yes, it hurts badly. Robbie, come nearer.” 

Then he put his arms round me; I was half out of the bed- 
clothes; but we were warm together under the coverlet. His 
curly head touched mine, his soft boyish cheek gently rubbed 
against my own. This was what he had come to do. This 
was what I had waited to know. 

Here was love again. It was true. It was sweet beyond 
belief. 

That is many years ago. Since then I have known many 
glorious things. I say still that this moment, when he placed 
his boyish arms around me, was the holiest and happiest of 
my life. 

I was crying new tears, not of hate nor misery, but joy. 


MARY LEE 


220 

Love opens the floodgates; and I was surrounded with love, 
bathed in it; love in heaven and love on earth; angel mother 
and human boy. The two little night-gowned bodies lay close 
together, the two children’s hearts beat. In one there was 
affectionate pity, in the other a wild joy; in both the high hap- 
piness of love. This is a joy so pure, that when older we can 
never know it again. We kissed each other again and again; 
eagerly, tenderly, wildly. The pent-up passion of my bitter 
heart poured forth; I strained him tenderly in my arms, he 
strained me in his. We were happy, far too happy to speak. 
His eyes were bright and tender, his dear face transfigured. 
We forgot everything, except that we loved each other. 

The church clock sounded midnight. 

Robbie broke the silence nervously. “I must go — soon. 
We shall have to say good-bye, shan’t we? It mayn’t be safe 
much longer. Don’t forget you must escape from the attic 
somehow; break the door open or anything. Find out from 
Mrs. Greeber exactly when I’m going. I thought of your going 
tonight when I was still here to help you, but you can’t; he 
has bolted all the doors and locked them and taken away the 
keys. He knew we might try. Oh, how I’ll flog him when I 
grow up.” 

“He’ll be old then, and yellower and wrinkled instead of 
smooth.” 

“I don’t care. I’ll flog him all the same. . . . Get a screw- 
driver or something and hide it when you are up in the attic. 
Then when we’re at the station you must break the lock and 
fly. I’ll leave the money under your bedroom carpet in the 
corner next to the door, let’s say four inches in — ” 

There was a sound; Robbie started up. “Oh, that’s only 
the floor creaking. Still, it’s late.” 

“Don’t go, Robbie.” 

“You know I don’t want to, but I’ll have to. When I’m 
older I’m not going to forget. We mayn’t meet for years and 
years, but we shall see each other again somewhere, I know 
we shall. We must try to remember each other ever so clearly. 
Isn’t there anything we can do to make it seem we’re near to- 
gether when we’re really far apart?” 

“I know. Every year exactly at this minute, a few minutes 
after midnight on Christmas night, we’ll think hard of each 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 221 

other, shut our eyes, clench our fists, and think terribly hard. 
Then it will seem that we’re really right by each other; you’ll 
believe I’m in the room with you, and I’ll believe you are. I 
shall wait till just after midnight, then try to think of nothing 
else in all the world but you. I shall think of you now as you 
are this minute — kiss me, it will be better to remember by — 
yes, hard, like that — and then I’ll pray ‘God, oh God, make 
Robbie be with me.’ He will help it to happen. People who 
are away from you can be with you like that, even dead people. 
My mother came tonight. I saw her and she spoke to me. I 
called out knowing she would come, and she came. You will 
too. But you must believe with all your heart that it’s going 
to happen; then it will. I shall think you are with me; then 
you will be. Of course I shall think of you other times, every 
day I expect, and always when I’m not happy, but only Christ- 
mas night in this special way. It’s too special to do often. 
Will you too? Remember, every Christmas night, just after 
midnight, when you’re lying in bed, however far away you 
are, and every year, always, think with all your soul of me 
and of our being together just as we are tonight. Then we 
shall be together again really, so that we shall always know 
one another whatever happens; always love each other, always 
be able to kiss. Promise, will you try?” 

“Yes, Mary,” he whispered. 

For another few minutes we lay quietly in each other’s arms. 
We were together that night perhaps one hour in all; an hour 
in which my whole soul changed. At last he had to go. 
Though he only whispered, I could hear that the whisper was 
husky. His little body trembled in my arms. 

“Good-night, Mary.” 

“Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear.” I hugged him harder 
than ever to me. I would not let him go. 

Then the good-bye kiss, sweetest of all, too sad for tears. 
His soft boy’s lips brushed mine; it seemed too that they 
touched the tendrils of my heart and made it blossom like the 
garden of lilies you read of in Solomon’s Song. A spirit of 
loveliness filled me. He got up ; now it was last good-bye. I 
saw his face for a moment in the beam of moonlight that came 
slantwise through my window. For many years that vision 
was the chief treasure I had : a little boy in a long white night- 


222 


MARY LEE 


gown, a head of tousled curls, a bright face flushed with joy 
and tears, radiant with my embrace, radiant with love for me. 

“Good-night, Mary, good-night. I’ll never forget you; I’ll 
always love you.” 

“Good-night, Robbie.” 


CHAPTER XVIII: NEW YEAR’S NIGHT 


I awoke next morning to see Aunt Martha standing by my 
bedside. 

“You’re to get up at once. Your uncle says you are to spend 
a week in the attic for your naughtiness, so get up and dress 
quickly. I’ll come back to take you in a few minutes. Your 
uncle says you’re to go before breakfast, now, at once, so that 
you can speak to nobody.” 

Robbie had heard aright. 

I was still very sore; my nightgown stuck to me here and 
there with dry blood, and hurt me as I tore it off. I dressed, 
and was ready when Aunt Martha returned. In the grey of a 
damp winter dawn I followed her upstairs. No one else was 
stirring. The unused, airless smell of the attic seemed more 
unpleasant than usual in the cold: an atmosphere at once 
frozen and stuffy. A mattress had been put on the floor; there 
were no bedclothes or coverlets. The room was bare except 
for a few boxes and old picture frames in one corner, the rusty 
old fender that always stood end upwards against the wall, and 
one rickety backless old chair. 

“Here’s a cloak to wrap round you in the night. Your uncle 
said I wasn’t to leave one.” She went away. 

All day I was left alone. Twice Aunt Martha came up with 
a bowl of gruel and a dry crust, but (evidently under orders) 
she said nothing. It was so cold that the cloak could not pre- 
vent my getting numbed. I lay huddled up on the mattress all 
through the day, thinking, thinking, thinking. ... Now that 
the first glow of the Wonder Night had passed away, there 
came a reaction, and I was gnawing away once more at all my 
bitter memories and hates. Pain, too, was governing me; my 
aching body was half numbed with cold, especially my legs 
and feet, which the cloak was not long enough to cover, huddle 
as I might. I kept my soul warm — and body too to some 
degree — by hugging to me the loves that now were mine. I 
lived the time spent with my mother and with Robbie over and 

223 


224 


MARY LEE 


over and over again: every gesture, every kindness, every kiss. 
For all my unhappiness and physical misery I could never 
again be so blankly, harbourlessly miserable as before. In 
my darkest moments I now knew that there were places of com- 
fort to which I could fly. 

I wondered what was going on in the house downstairs. It 
was night-time now; tomorrow morning Robbie would be 
going and I should be alone with Uncle Simeon. Escape I 
must. I climbed on to the rickety old chair and opened the 
skylight window. I looked out and observed that the skylight 
was of a level piece with the sloping roof. I could see noth- 
ing beyond the edge of the roof; the sense of the great drop 
beyond that edge came to me, and as I pictured myself fall- 
ing, I shuddered. That way there was no escape. 

Then, for one second, as I looked down the sloping roof, 
came a sudden notion to throw myself over. It was a physical 
impulse only, and passed as quickly as it came. It would 
have stayed longer had I been the least bit tempted. But I 
could never see the sense of suicide. I saw no good in killing 
myself, because I believed in immortality. By killing myself 
I should only be ensuring an Eternity in hell instead of an 
Eternity in heaven. The little boy in one of the new novels 
makes away with himself because he believes that there is noth- 
ing beyond death, and that by killing himself in this world 
he has killed his soul for ever. If I had believed that I too 
might have been tempted. But my creed was in immortality, 
from which there is no escape. Nor had I the physical courage 
which suicide requires. And it would steal my chance of meet- 
ing my mother in the next world and Robbie in this. 

I lay down on my mattress, seeking vainly, like a mouse in a 
trap, some new way of escape. During the first night in that 
cold dreary attic I slept hardly at all. The rats frightened me; 
I could not sleep for fear they would crawl over my face once 
it was still. Surely Robbie would send some sign, some mes- 
sage. None came. Later I must have slept; for again it was 
Aunt Martha who woke me when she came to bring my “break- 
fast.” She was startled to see how starved with cold I was, and 
came back with a big warm blanket. It was a brave thing for 
her to do. 


NEW YEAR’S NIGHT 225 

“Robert Grove is going, isn’t he?” I asked casually, steady- 
ing my voice. 

“Your Uncle thought he was going today, but it has been put 
off till next Tuesday, New Year’s Day, when his uncle returns 
from abroad. Till then your uncle says you must stay here.” 

There I stayed. Four walls, locked door, and precipitous 
roof baffled all my notions of escape. The best thing I could 
think of was a rush for the door when Aunt Martha came with 
my food; but I saw this would not be much good. She would 
raise the alarm, and he would catch me before I could get 
clear of the house. 

Five days passed, long, cold and wretched; though with the 
big blanket, and the forbidden extras Aunt Martha contrived 
sometimes to convey me with my meals, I managed to keep 
alive, and kept, in my fashion of health, reasonaby well. No 
message came from Robbie. No doubt Uncle Simeon was 
watching him day and night. But still — . 

I was not sure of the passage of time, but I reckoned one 
night that it was New Year’s Eve. The last night, and still no 
message. Tomorrow he was going: this time for certain, and 
for ever; I should be left alone with my tormentor. Half in 
terror (of Uncle Simeon when he should get me alone), half 
in hope (of a sign from Robbie), I lay awake through the 
whole of that night. It struck midnight. The bells rang out; 
merrily, mockingly. It was New Year’s night as I had thought. 
All over the town people, even Saints, were wishing each other 
a Happy New Year. The bells were still. I lay awake wait- 
ing for something to happen, for I knew it would. All the 
night-time sounds of an old house were around me. Boards 
creaked, roof shook, rats scampered. Sometimes I was startled 
by a metallic sound as a rat scampered over the tin plate on 
which Aunt Martha brought my bread. 

There — that was a new sound! That tapping noise at the 
door was never a rat. It seemed low down just where a rat 
might scratch, but that was the rap of human knuckles, faint 
but unmistakable. Who? Why? I crawled out of the blan- 
ket, lay down on the bare boards and whispered under the door. 

“Robbie, is that you, Robbie?” 

There was no reply except the stealthy sound of something 


226 MARY LEE 

being pushed under the door. I saw a white thing that looked 
like a small envelope. I touched it and felt inside the paper a 
hard round thing. It was the half-sovereign he had promised 
me. 

“Robbie, Robbie, thank you! Are you there? Robbie, 
Robbie.” 

There was no reply. I heard cautious footsteps, with a long 
interval between each, going down the creaky old stairs. How 
I wished he had whispered one word, one word. He had 
thought I was asleep and had not dared to speak loud enough to 
wake me. Never mind, it was better that the last thing was 
Christmas Night’s perfect good-bye. 

I clutched the envelope and mourned the weary hours of 
waiting until I could read it, for I had no candle. I kept my 
eyes staring wide open to prevent myself falling asleep. I 
could feel that there was a letter as well as money inside the 
envelope. I knew it would help me; I was impatient to know 
how. So much did it raise my hopes, that I fell to thinking of 
the coach-ride to Tawborough, of what Grandmother would 
say and how Aunt Jael would receive me. 

As I stared through the darkness I became gradually aware 
of a ray of light along the ceiling. It did not come from the 
skylight, for there was no moon; and it ran horizontally along 
the ceiling, not down into the room. I got up and climbed on 
to the chair to investigate. Then I guessed. I had often 
noticed in a corner in the top of the wall (the corner farthest 
from the door) a litttle wooden door a foot or more square; 
it did not exactly fit the space in the wall and there was a thin 
aperture between the bottom of this little door and where the 
wall began. It was through this slit, not more than half an 
inch wide, that the strip of light came. I pulled at the handle 
and the little door opened. 

Ten yards or so away, on a level with my eyes, I saw 
a square patch of brightness. In a flash, I understood; the 
light from which it came was in Uncle Simeon’s attic. There 
was a hole in the corner of the top of the wall there too, the 
selfsame square space I had seen when peeping through the 
keyhole. What the holes were for I did not know; most 
likely to ventilate the room in between. The space mystery 
which had so often puzzled me was now explained. There 


227 


NEW YEAR’S NIGHT 

was, in between the two attics which I knew, mine and Uncle 
Simeon’s, another intermediate garret twice as large as either. 

Instantly, I formed the resolution of squeezing my way 
through the hole, traversing the long dark attic in between, 
clambering up the other aperture through which the ray of 
light was streaming, and seeing — just what I was too excited 
to guess, except that I knew that he was there. The hole was 
about eighteen inches square; it was a tight squeeze, but thanks 
to his dieting I managed it. Clambering down the other side 
was awkward work; I held on to the wall part of the hole to 
prepare for a jump. I knew it was a longish drop; there 
was no convenient chair on this side, and as I had left my 
slippers behind so as to make as little noise as possible, 
I hoped the ground was not too hard. My feet alighted un- 
evenly; the left foot on the corner of a beam stuck edgeways, 
the right on the level of the floor, which was of course lower 
by the width of the beam. I hurt my toe badly. The ray 
of light was only sufficient to show up very dimly the big gar- 
ret in which I now stood ; I could make out that the floor was 
traversed by long beams laid edgeways, parallel with the front 
of the house and thus leading from my attic to his. Along 
one of these I walked ; for although it was awkwardly narrow, 
it was better for my stockinged feet than the floor, which I 
made out to be strewn with pieces of wood, stone and plaster. 
When I got to the other end I found that my objective was 
too high; my fingers only just reached the edge of the hole. 
By standing on tiptoe, however, and clutching for all I was 
worth I managed to lever myself up. Then I looked into the 
mysterious room. 

What I saw was unforgettable. On a high cupboard flared 
a lamp, nearly on a level with the space through which I was 
looking. This explained how it was that the light carried 
right through to the corresponding hole in the wall of my attic. 
In the full glare of the lamp sat Simeon Greeber, leaning over 
a table covered with papers and documents, at which he 
peered. He gloated over them, fondled them, sometimes he 
laughed and breathed hard, and his eyes shone. Then he 
would stop, cock his head on one side for a moment, and 
listen anxiously. I watched him, fascinated. Round him, on 
the floor and the table, were many envelopes and papers. 1'he 


228 MARY LEE 

wall was some inches thick; to see as much as I could I peered 
further in, so far indeed that if he stood up and looked my 
way he could hardly fail to see me. I noticed the big green 
box I had observed from the key-hole months before; a heavy 
door on hinges stood wide open; inside were more papers. 
His face, in the moments when he lifted it up, was of a greenish 
yellow hue in the lamp-light; and his eyes shone. 

In my interest I had forgotten the awkwardness of my pos- 
ture; supported by my elbows and wrists on the wall part 
of the hole, with my feet hanging in mid-air, my toes perhaps 
barely touching the wall. Once I lost my hold, and clutched 
convulsively so as not to fall. He heard the noise, lifted 
his face from the pile in which he was wallowing, and looked 
round anxiously. I had scared him. 

“No, no, it can’t be, it can’t be,” he whispered, endeavouring 
to assure himself of something. 

He returned to his love. Now he rubbed his face sideways 
against the papers, gently, like a friendly cat against your 
leg. 

I resolved to make a noise deliberately, keeping myself far 
enough back not to be seen, and to listen to what he might say. 

In silence, at night, alone, a sigh is the most awful noise 
that can strike the human ear. I waited till his face was 
lifted again for a moment, held myself far enough back so 
as not to be seen easily, while still seeing him, and uttered a 
long-drawn agonized sigh. He started up with a cry. His 
cowardly face was a livid green. 

“Brother, brother” — it was a terrified whine — “twelve years 
ago, twelve years ago.” 

“Twelve years ago, twelve years ago,” echoed the watching 
whisperer. 

He gave a horrible frightened cry, something between a 
beast’s whine and howl, dropped on his knees, clasped his 
hands, turned his terrified eyes upward, and broke into delir- 
ious prayer. His face streamed with sweat. 

“Oh, God, God, visit not Thy servant thus. ’Twas all done 
for Thee, all for Thee, Thou knowest. The gold is all Thine. 
For Thy name’s sake, Oh Lord, pity Thy faithful, humble ser- 
vant. He, Lord, was a sinner, it was meet that he should go, 
and that one of Thine own people should hold his wealth. 


229 


NEW YEAR’S NIGHT 

He was spending all in sin; it was one’s duty, Lord, one’s 
duty. It was Thou who guidedst one’s hand that night, and 
was he not dying already from the illness with which Thou 
hadst stricken him? For Thy sake, oh Lord, it was done. 
Thou knowest it. Not the meanest penny has been spent on 
worldly pleasures nor evil ways nor self, as he, oh Lord, 
would have spent it. Thou knowest, Thou knowest; the meet- 
ings, the missionaries, the work in Thy vineyard amongst Thy 
people; all that has been spent has been spent in Thy service, 
and when Thou callest me to Thee, all will be left for Thy 
work on earth below. All, oh Lord, all. Thou knowest, Thou 
knowest. Grant then that he trouble me not thus, grant — ” 

“Twelve years ago, twelve years ago,” I whispered, more 
boldly, tasting dear revenge, anxious to see to what length 
of terror and blasphemy this snivelling Thing could go. 

I overshot my mark; I whispered a little too loud. He 
looked quickly up to the hole in the wall, and though I shrank 
back like a flash, for a fraction of a second our eyes met. 

Then he rushed for the door. 

I dropped myself down and ran for dear life back across the 
beamed room to my attic. Feverishly I reviewed the position. 
He had quite certainly seen me and was now rushing to my 
attic to cut off my retreat. I sped across, sprang up to the 
aperture, squeezed my way wildly through, calculating all the 
while, as the quarry does, the number of seconds it will take 
the huntsman to finish him. He would have to fly down the 
stairs from his attic, along the landing, and up the stairs to 
mine. Thank God, he had to fetch the key, which I knew was 
kept somewhere downstairs. This delay saved me. I just 
had time to squeeze through, shut the little door, drop on to 
the chair, move the chair from beneath, fly to my mattress, 
and throw the cape around me, before I heard the key turning. 

He came in stealthily and stood listening for a second 
near the door. Then he struck a match and lighted the candle 
he held in his hand. I dropped my eyelids so that I could 
just see him, and affected as far as I could a quiet and regular 
breathing. He looked first at me, then round the room, ev- 
idently baffled. If he had found my mattress empty, if I had 
not flown back on the wings of terror, he would have had the 
pleasure of trapping me like a rat in the dark roof-room, the 


230 


MARY LEE 


relief of a natural explanation of the strange whisperings, and 
at last a genuine excuse for beating me sick. But here I was, 
sleeping peacefully. I could feel him looking at me with 
intense hate. He hated me almost as much for bringing him 
here on a fool’s errand as if he had thought I was really guilty. 
He bent down and peered more closely at my face. Instinc- 
tively my hand was clasped against my heart. 

The door opened and Aunt Martha came in, shivering 
slightly in her nightdress. 

“You here, Simeon? I thought I heard the child cry out.” 

“So did oneself. One came to see if anything were the mat- 
ter; but she sleeps calmly enough.” The lie saved him. 

“Come, Martha, my dear,” he said, as he closed the door, 
“one will deal with her tomorrow.” 

There, however, he was wrong. 

The sights of the past half hour had of course excited me 
beyond measure, but I already reflected that they could be 
put to use; a very handy lever to turn Aunt Jael’s wrath from 
me to him. Once again, how was I to get to Aunt Jael? 
I reckoned that hours must still pass before it was light enough 
for me to read Robbie’s letter. I got up again from the 
mattress to sit on the chair and await the dawn. My feet 
crunched against something; it was a box of matches Uncle 
Simeon must have dropped in his excitement. By striking 
these one after another I read: 

Dear Dear Mary: Here is the money for the coach. I am going 
tomorrow morning. The door is bolted, it is no good that way, but 
I have found a way. You wait till eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, 
that will be the morning you find this, then get out by the little window 
in the roof, it is quite safe I have made sure. There is a drain pipe 
begins at the very top where the sloping part of the roof stops, you 
must climb down that, it gets you down into the back yard, and the 
back yard door is not locked. I’ve taken the key. Then take the coach 
or run or anything to Tawborough. Get away from here, that’s all, 
you must. There is no danger, it will be quite easy to climb down, 
you’ll not hurt. I am always, always going to think of you and next 
Christmas we will meet properly like you said. 

Your loving 

Robbie. 

P. S. Happy New Year. 

I kissed the letter. 

There was no time to be lost. I wrapped Aunt Martha’s cape 


NEW YEAR’S NIGHT 


231 


round me and put on my shoes, — indoor slippers without a 
strap, poor enough footwear for an eight mile walk. I 
clambered on to the chair and lifted the heavy handle of the 
sky-light window. The damp air of a raw winter’s night crept 
into the room. 

How I ever got to the ground, I do not know. Somehow I 
slithered down the sloping roof till my feet touched the ledge 
Robbie had spoken of; somehow I found the drain pipe, and 
somehow I clambered down. The yard door was open as he 
had said, and I walked through it into the deathly silent street, 
breathing a sigh of intense relief that I remember to this day. 
I broke immediately into a run, that I might put between me 
and that accursed house as much distance with as small delay 
as possible; when I was halfway across the old bridge I 
looked back at it, dimly silhouetted against the winter’s 
night. 

“Good-bye Robbie!” I called. 

I crossed the bridge and climbed the hill. Very soon I 
was foot-sore; the toe that had caught on the beam in the 
roof-room began to bleed, and my shoes kept slipping off. 
I was cold, hungry, sore, cramped and faint. The cold slow 
rain, somewhere between drizzle and sleet, beat upon my 
face. By all the tenets of melodrama my escape should 
have been through deep crisp snow with the valiant horned 
moon astride the sky. There was no moon, and sleet is 
crueller than snow. After a while, I lost one of my shoes, 
turned back, peered about for it, was unable to find it; kicked 
away the other and ran along in my stockinged feet. Both 
feet were soon bleeding. After a mile or so, when I could 
run no further, I trudged or rather hobbled along, keeping 
to the middle of the road, which was the easiest and least 
muddy part. At moments the temptation to sit down was 
almost irresistible; sleep more than half possessed me. I 
clenched my teeth and kept on, will power eking out what 
little physical force was left. I prayed continuously. 

After perhaps three or four hours, though it seemed unend- 
ing years, I saw ahead of me the first roofs of Tawborough. 
I limped through the wet silent streets of the town, up Bear 
Street on to the Lawn, and through our garden gate. I pulled 
the bell, and then with a wretchedness and weariness I could 


232 MARY LEE 

not resist now that my goal was reached, sank down upon 
the doorstep. 

Immediately I must have fallen asleep, for it seemed that 
I awoke from far away to see my Grandmother in her red dress- 
ing-gown and funny nightcap standing before me. 

“It’s me — Mary. I’ve come back, Grandmother, because he 
would have killed me. I’ve walked all night, and I’m so tired.” 

I rose to my feet, and fainted in her arms. Then I remem- 
ber no more. 


CHAPTER XIX: BEAR LAWN AGAIN 


I awoke to find myself in my Grandmother’s bed. Evening 
was darkening the room. Uncle Simeon had already come — 
and gone. 

Precisely what had taken place I was not told, but according 
to Mrs. Cheese neither my Grandmother nor my Great-Aunt 
had minced their words. Aunt Jael, particularly, must have 
been in awful form. Though I had not yet told my tale, my 
condition must have spoken for itself; and if Aunt Jael’s sym- 
pathy for me was not alone sufficient to pitch her to the 
highest key of scorn, the sight of her old enemy made good the 
deficiency. Even for him he must have cringed and whined 
exceptionally, being quite in the dark as to how much I had 
told. Whether the flagellative heart of my Great-Aunt was 
filled with professional jealousy or whether the new role of 
Tender and Merciful appealed to her for the moment, all that 
is certain is this: that she drove Master Simeon Greeber with 
words and scorpions over the doorstep, adding that he was 
never required to cross it again. Nor did he. I was many 
years older when next we met: under what circumstances the 
sequel will shew. 

When I regained my health, which under my Grandmother’s 
care and feeding was speedily enough, I was surprised to find 
how little Grandmother and Aunt Jael pressed me for details 
of my life at Torribridge. This incuriousness puzzled me: 
chiefly by contrast with what my own interest would have been 
in their place. Details of other people’s doings and sayings 
were to become one of the absorbing passions of my life: 1 
was born with my mind at a keyhole. Hence Tuesday after- 
noons, when they could be diverted from godly generalities to 
piquant personalities were more welcome than of old ; and now 
that I was occasionally allowed to speak a word at Clinkerian 
ceremonies, I became quite deft in sidetracking Miss Salvation 
down the pathways of scandal, where Aunt Jael, not too reluc- 
tantly, would sometimes follow her. Aunt Jael, to .do her jus- 

233 


234 MARY LEE 

tice, was not much of a gossip: she was too selfish, just as my 
Grandmother was too unselfish, too deeply absorbed in Aunt 
Jael ever to feel deep interest, even a scandal -mongering inter- 
est, in other people: while her suspicion that her own efforts 
were capable of similar sacrilegious discussion would not allow 
her to allow me to talk of Uncle Simeon’s beatings and per- 
secutions. She felt that however objectionable Uncle Simeon 
might be, she would not permit me — a child, a subject, a slave 
— to discuss him. Authority must be upheld, in whatever un- 
pleasant quarters. In the Tacit Alliance and Trade Union 
for Cruelty to Children there must be no blacklegs. 

My Grandmother was the most incurious woman I have ever 
known : partly because of her inherent good nature, which made 
her regard all chatter about others as unkindly; partly because 
of her religion, which enabled her to see, though I think to 
exaggerate, the unimportance of earthly things. To every 
question, every trouble, every accusation, every wrong, she 
would everlastingly reply: “What will it matter in a hundred 
years?” and then, “Anyhow, ’tis the Lord’s will.” With a 
character thus compounded of kindness, unworldliness and fa- 
talism, Grandmother was never born to pry. It quite irritated 
me how little she asked me about my life at Uncle Simeon’s. 
I had believed myself the centre of the universe, the victim of 
the cruellest wrongs in human story ; and here was my Grand- 
mother thinking it friendly and loving and sympathetic to say 
“Don’t ’ee brood over it, my dear. Forget it all. ’Twill seem 
little in a hundred years from now!” 

Apart however from this pique that my mi&ries should be 
denied the glory of posthumous fame, I was glad that I was 
left alone with the past eight months of my life. I could hide 
without subterfuge my friendship with Robbie. Naturally, 
and artfully, I mentioned him sometimes. 

“Such a nice little boy, Grandmother; he was really! We 
liked each other — ever so!” 

Always my favourite form of insincerity: to tell the literal 
truth, while conveying by the context or my manner something 
much less — i. e. morally speaking, not the truth at all. I loved 
him; I told Grandmother I liked him. It was the truth, and a 
lie. 


/ 


BEAR LAWN AGAIN 235 

I also kept hidden in my own breast the chief events of New 
Year’s Night. 


Within a few weeks the eight months of Torribridge seemed 
infinitely far away: as though it were some one else’s life I 
was contemplating from a distant mountain-peak. I have 
always found that the more complete my change of surround- 
ings, the more distant does my previous life immediately be- 
come; until some sudden messenger from the earlier days 
brings it back with a vivid rush. I never lived again the pres- 
ent-moment horror, as it were, of that life with Uncle Simeon 
until one day, far ahead, when I realized with frightening sud- 
denness, as I gazed at a certain face beside me, that thoste eyes, 
that smile, that gesture — were his. 

I fell back almost insensibly into the old groove of Bear 
Lawn life: the bare empty-seeming silent house, the long days 
of loneliness and godliness, pinings and prayers, the two famil- 
iar black-clad figures in the old familiar horse-hair chairs, the 
harsh staccato jobations proceeding from one side of the fire- 
place, and the gentler but no less continual “Don’t ’ee do it’s ! ” 
from the other. Torribridge was soon a nightmare episode 
shot through with glad dreams more episodal still. This life 
in this house that had sheltered my first memories was, after 
all, my real life; was Life. It seemed as though I had never 
known any other; I often cannot remember whether certain 
things happened before or after Torribridge: my Bear Lawn 
life was all one. 

Nevertheless a few notable changes marked my return. 

First of all, I was received as a full member of the Lawn 
confraternity. Aunt Jael allowed me to go out and play: ay, 
with this selfsame famous tribe through whose frankness in 
grappling with fundamentals I had been disgraced and sent 
away. 

“No filth, mind! No low talk. No abominations.” 

Nor were there. Filth, low talk and abominations had de- 
parted with Joseph Jones to his draper’s apprenticeship in a big 
c i t y — this was one of the large events of my absence — and what 
Bristol gained, Tawborough lost. Under the new rule of 


236 


MARY LEE 

Laurie Prideaux I heard no more of the talk to which my six 
weeks under Joe had been accustoming me. The change of 
chieftainship meant a change in the tone of the whole com- 
munity. Joe bullied and sneered if you wouldn’t use his 
words; Laurie thrashed Ted King for using them. One boy 
changed the moral outlook of a Lawn ; a generation, a town, a 
world! Under Laurie’s patronage I was received into full 
membership. Under which flag? After a moving discussion, 
in which arguments charged with the nicest theological insight 
jostled with mere vulgar prejudice against my clothes (this 
was the Tompkins girl, over-dressed and under- witted little cat 
that she was), it was decided that the Chapel League was best 
fitted to receive me to its nonconformist bosom. I could not 
help feeling it a come-down that a Saint should be classed, as 
it were officially, with mere Dissenters: it was, however, the 
lesser of two evils, for the Church of England, after all, was 
something worse than “mere.” 

I was never much good at the various games, tig, French 
cricket, rounders and the like, which occupied so large a part 
of Lawn life. The amorous ones — Kiss in the Ring and Shy 
Widow — I shunned altogether. I was too serious, or too sen- 
sitive, or high-minded, or morbid, to be able to regard touch 
as a plaything §entiment. Laurie and Marcus were nice boys, 
and I liked them, quite definitely; but I refused to respond 
when they “chose” me for their lady. In these games of sen- 
timent and shy surrender, the challenge of choice must be ac- 
cepted without flush or murmur: I could not, so refused to 
take part. Kissing was too precious a privilege. I cherished 
it for three people only: my Mother when I sought the gates of 
Heaven; myself when on my own lips in the looking-glass I 
tried to discover the mystery of this world; Robbie, when I 
needed Love. 

I acquired, however, a certain position of my own in Lawn 
esteem: the teller of stories. My subject was Aunt Jael; her 
ways, words and deeds; her rods and ropes; her food and 
medicine cupboards, her winsome underclothing, awful wrath, 
and appetite diurnal and nocturnal. I told of the beetle and 
of the Great God; and of far beatings. The Lawn listened, 
admired and applauded; admitted in me something they did 
not possess; the power to interest and to amuse. Thus they 


BEAR LAWN AGAIN 237 

decided my fate for me, in showing me the thing in which I 
was different from and better than others; and Mary Lee, si- 
lent and morose by instinct, by upbringing and by environ- 
ment, eet up for life as an amateur-professional raconteuse. 
That way lay success, and success is what we seek. In forcing 
myself to talk that I might bask in the amusement of the other 
children, I gradually lost some of the moodiness and glumness 
of my earlier days; later on in life, in still more favourable 
surroundings, I lost them altogether: that is, in the face I 
showed to the world. The simple need of status with the Lawn 
children drove me to do the one thing I could do: to talk, and 
so to discover my talent and overlay my original nature. Thus 
it is ambition that transforms character, rather than char- 
acter ambition. Thus it was that Aunt Jael provided me with 
the capital for my new venture, and paid handsomely for all 
her oppressions. An eye for an eye, a Lawn laugh for every 
blow! 

The Elementary Educational Establishment was now beneath 
my needs, so I was transferred from the Misses Clinker (who, 
while far above vile pecuniary jealousy, prophesied ill) to the 
seminary of the Misses Primp. The latter were Saints, ob- 
scure but regular at the Great Meeting, and socially above the 
ruck. “Reg’lar standoffish, wi’ the pride ur the flesh in their 
’earts,” declared Miss Salvation, who saw clearly from her 
altitude far above vile pecuniary jealousy. They held their 
school in a bleak house with a big bare garden, to the north of 
the town, ten minutes or so from the Lawn. The curriculum 
embraced Arithmetic to the Rule of Three, Composition, Gram- 
mar, French, Literature (Sacred and Profane), Needlework 
(Plain and Fancy), Drawing (Freehand and Design) ; Botany 
and Brushwork; together with “a thorough grounding in the 
principles of Salvation.” 

Not to put too fine a point upon it, this last pretension was 
a lie. A Bible-reading, usually Kings or Chronicles, read with 
parrot-quickness round the class, one verse to each pupil; a 
long dry prayer -offered up, with eyes gimletted not on heaven 
but on us, by Miss Prudence Primp; and a longer and still 
drier homily by Miss Obedience Primp, a gaunt old lady with 
a gigantic crinoline and a parched soul and throat — in a later, 
more worldly age, this allowance of heavenly fare may not 


238 


MARY LEE 


seem so niggardly ; to me, bred as it were in the imperial purple 
of Grace, the whole performance appeared perfunctory and 
tepid, and the Primpian acquaintance with the principles of 
salvation positively sketchy. My studies were remarkable 
only for their unevenness. The net result of my inequalities 
was that I occupied a steady middle-place in the weekly marks. 
I reflected with pride, however, that it was no ordinary middle- 
place, the result of humdrum averageness in everything: and 
I was vainer of being bad at my bad subjects than good at my 
good ones. Were they not stupid subjects in which a quite 
special unique set-apart Chosen little girl like myself would 
not stoop to shine? Tots indeed! Brushwork! 

I do not recall many events in my school life. Those that 
recur to me are chiefly unpleasant; how some of the girls 
cribbed and copied and cheated and lied; how others giggled 
sickeningly at the word “boys,” or mocked shamefully at their 
mothers and fathers. They were red-letter days when Cissie 
King, my Lawn enemy, had a fit, foamed at the mouth, went 
green in the face, was obdurate under basinsful of water, and 
only came round at the third dose of brandy; or when Miss 
Obedience quarrelled openly with Miss Prudence in front of 
the whole school, and cried “Leave me, woman!” Nor can I 
forget my first day, when Miss Obedieftce, as we were leav- 
ing after the morning school, asked two of the older girls who 
lived my way to accompany me h-ome, and I overheard them 
say to each other “Not likely! We’ll leave her at the school 
gate; wouldn’t be seen with her, with her frock all darned and 
nasfy common clothes and boots, would you? If anybody 
should think she belonged to us!” How my cheeks burned, 
how I hated and loathed those two giggling little snobs, and 
still more my own uncomely person and garments. How I 
brooded for days and gnawed at the shame. These are the 
real events of a child’s life; they sound the depths of human 
passion: shame, jealousy and hate. 

One other major event followed close upon my return. 
Wedding Bells! For five and forty years had Miss Salvation 
Clinker been pursuing Brother Brawn; now the long chase was 
ended, and the quarry at last secured. She was seventy- 
seven, he but seventy-one. How on a secret visit one morning 


BEAR LAWN AGAIN 


239 


she broke the news to Grandmother, postponing vainly the 
Jaelian wrath to come; how later that wrath fell (“Bold 
woman of Proverbs seven-twelve, who lieth in wait at every 
corner,” said Denouncer; “I shall do more than some as I 
know, and go to ’Eaven a wedded wife,” answered Denounced, 
brazen in vanishing-maidenhood) — while scorn and pity were 
showered upon the victim; how Aunt Jael’s ban went forth, 
and the banns despite it; how they became man and wife; how 
she had her Triumph, and dragged him through the streets of 
Tawborough in an open carriage . . . this and much more I 
might portray. 

The mild scandal in our Meeting was as nothing to the 
rage and horror in the Upper Room for Celibate Saints. At 
a solemn mass-meeting of the survivors, nigh half a dozen 
strong, Doctor Obadiah Tizzard decreed: that Glory Clinker, 
aider and abetter in evil, be then and thenceforward struck 
from the sacred roll and flung into outer darkness ; that against 
Salvation, nee Clinker, sinner of sinners, be pronounced the 
Major Excommunication. 

The “Upper’s” gain was our loss. Henceforward the Clin- 
kers were always with us. (Nobody favoured Salvation with 
her new surname.) But the chief loser by her change of state 
was, alas, poor Brother Brawn. The sisters let the High Street 
Mansion, the aforetime E.E.E., and moved, inseparably, into 
the White House. There, sandwiched between a gentle detra - 
quee and a scolding shrew, our bleating leader found repent- 
ance, if no leisure more. 

“I told ’ee so,” said Aunt Jael. “ ’E’ve done it now. There 
is no hope.” 

The husband certainly had none, though his spouse, dream- 
ily quoting Luke-one-thirteen, declared that she had, and the 
good sister-in-law er-er-er’d and plied her unsteady needle on 
swaddling-clothes, while muttering always to herself “John! 
Thou shalt call his name John!” . . . 

Neither school nor Lawn nor Clinkers, however, seemed 
anything but incidental to my life in the big house at Number 
Eight, always for me the first of external things. Here too 
there were changes. 

Mrs. Cheese had come back. Servant after servant had 


240 


MARY LEE 

passed away like that grass which in the morning groweth up 
and in the evening withereth away. Stability reigned in the 
kitchen once more. Relations with Aunt Jael partook of the 
nature of an armed truce. Both restrained themselves, Mrs. 
Cheese because she wanted to stay, Aunt Jael because she 
wanted her to; though the former was a bit too fond of making 
it clear that she had come back to us for my Garndmother’s 
sake only, “and not to plaize zome others I cude mention.” 
Despite her loyal affection for my Grandmother, the real 
person for whose sake she had come back was herself. At 
sixty she was too old to break with old habits, such as our 
kitchen and her routine therein, or with Aunt Jael, who was 
a habit also, if a bad one. 

From this time Grandmother occupies a larger place in my 
memories than Aunt Jael. Why, I am somewhat puzzled 
to say; for their life, and my life with them, went on just as 
of old. Perhaps now that beatings became rarer, it was nat- 
ural that she whose skill therein had been the terror of my 
earlier childhood should loom less large. Perhaps it was 
that Aunt Jael, my bad angel, appeared tame in her badness 
by the side of Uncle Simeon (but then should Grandmother, 
my good angel, have become faint in my affections besides 
Robbie; whereas I liked her better and thought of her more). 
Perhaps it was that Grandmother’s gentler qualities would nat- 
urally have made less impression on a little child than Aunt 
Jael’s harsh ones, or anybody’s good qualities than anybody’s 
bad ones. Further, I now saw more of Grandmother, as Aunt 
Jael developed the habit of confining herself to her bedroom 
for days at a stretch, only emerging on to the landing to rain 
curses over the banisters on Mrs. Cheese for a useless, shift- 
less idler, unfit to wait on a suffering bedridden old martyr, 
or on Grandmother for a selfish, ungrateful sister always ab- 
sent from her elder’s bed of pain; or (oftenest) on me. 

With outdoor exercise and good food, which now for the 
first time I enjoyed together, I became healthier and I think 
happier. Though I still lived for my daydreams, I had less 
time on my hands. 

What with dusting and bed-making and cooking, what with 
homework and meals and prayers and ceaseless reading of the 
Word in public and private, and Aunt Jael’s and Grand- 


BEAR LAWN AGAIN 241 

mother’s expositions, I found my days too full to yield the 
time I needed for thinking and talking to myself: for living. 
I got into the habit of stealing odd quarters-of-an-hour in the 
attic. Aunt Jael was on my scent in a moment. How I 
loathed her when a luxurious heart-to-heart talk between Mary 
and Myself was interrupted by her hoarse scolding voice. 

“Child! Child! Now then. Down from the garret, now. 
No monkey tricks.” 

Perhaps as an attraction to hold me downstairs, the portals 
of the dining-room bookcase were at last thrown open to me. 
The wealth therein would have seemed meagre, perhaps, to 
worldlier spirits; to me, for whom all books save One (and 
one other) had always been closed, it was a gold mine. Of un- 
equal yield. With some of the more desiccated devotional 
works I saw at once that I could make no headway. Such 
were Aunt Jael’s beloved “Thoughts on the Apocalypse” and 
a row of funereally-bound tomes devoted to the exposition of 
prophecy. Laid sideways on the bottom shelf was that musty 
fusty giant, our celebrated copy of the “Trowsers Bible.” 
I liked Matthew Henry’s great Commentary in three huge 
black volumes, with the dates at the top of every page, from 
which I learnt that this world was made in the year B.C. 4004 
(six thousand years ago: a brief poor moment lost in the 
facing-both-ways Eternity that haunted me), and that Christ 
was born four years Before Christ. Certain books demolish- 
ing the Darbyites or Close Brethren and their fellow-sinners 
at the other pole of Error pleased me by their hairsplitting 
arguments and vituperative abuse. Then there was “Grace 
abounding to the Chief of Sinners” by Master John Bunyan. 

The record of this period of my life is perforce weari- 
some and undramatic. There are no events. More than ever 
my real life was inside me, was make-believe; that is, real. 
Change of residence was but a change of stage. The same 
comedy-tragedy — ME — was for ever on the boards. Not that 
the change of stage meant nothing. Houses, rooms, weathers, 
smells, all affected and were somehow a part of my thoughts. 
The two towns, I knew, were intimately mixed up with my 
feelings about all that had happened to me in them. Torri- 
bridge was the more romantic : little white town made magical 


242 


MARY LEE 


by the word-sorcery of Westward Ho! Quay that harboured 
brown-sailed ships from the Indies, memories of the Rose of 
Torribridge and that salmon-coloured hostelry called by her 
name; then Number One, house of gold and murder and mys- 
tery. Tawborough was more real. Graced by no Rose of 
Torridge, she held instead the rose of merchandise. The busy, 
countrified, unimaginably English character of her market and 
her streets seemed to make her more genuine, more actual — the 
right word eludes me — than Torribridge: Torribridge, that 
eight months’ rainbow-circled nightmare, mere invention of 
Mr. Kingsley and Robbie and Uncle Simeon. Act Three was 
back in the first setting again; and here, in dining-room, in 
bed, in attic, the play went on. The principal character was 
Mary Lee. The audience was Mary Lee. I was player, pro- 
ducer, public all in one. 

“Mary,” I would say, as soon as I was alone. “Listen, 
I will tell you what I think.” 

“Yes, Mary; do!” 

This sense of two selves, one of whom could confide in 
the other, was ever more vivid. Some one else inside me 
was pleased, surprised, angered, grieved; shared my sorrows 
and triumphs. Thus it was that in weeping for myself after 
some cruelty of Aunt Jael’s or some more spiritual grief, I 
felt I was not selfish, because I was sharing trouble with 
some one else, who lived in the same body. Such impres- 
sions are at once too rudimentary and too subtle to be well 
conveyed in words. 

When I called out “Mary,” and answered “Yes” the 
reality of question and answer between two different, though 
curiously intimate persons, was physical, overwhelming. 

Soon after my return to my Grandmother’s this sense of 
dual personality began, in its most physical manifestations, 
to fade somewhat; in its more spiritual quality, to grow more 
intense: the first when I began my Diary, the second at the 
miraculous moment of my Baptism. 


CHAPTER XX: DAIRY 


The notion came to me one warm autumn afternoon, as 
I was reading “Grace Abounding.” 

From the first page I struck up a living friendship with 
the Bedford tinker, though he had been in heaven for near 
two hundred years. I understood him as he talked aloud 
to himself and peered within to discover who and what was 
this John Bunyan inside him. I liked too — the more so as 
it was so new in print and from the mind of some-one-else — 
the careful detail with which he told of his earthly outward 
life: his descent, his lowly parentage, his school, his early 
days, though I could have wished for details of his Aunt 
Jaels and Uncle Simeons. These did not lack when he talked 
of his “inside” life, and told me (who knew,) of his child- 
hood’s “fearful dreams” and “dreadful visions” and “thoughts 
of the fearful Torments of Hell fire,” because of which “in 
the midst of my many Sports and Childish Vanities, amidst 
my vain Companions, I was often much cast down and 
afflicted.” Why should not I tell a like story of my soul day 
by day, detail by detail? 

The notion rolled through me like a tide. I closed the 
book, sprang up, shut my eyes, and walked round and round 
the room in my excitement. Today, this moment, I would 
begin. Then as I turned my mind to practical details — the 
book I should write it in, the hiding-place for the book — 
hesitations appeared. Wasn’t it a bit funny? Did other 
people do it? Why, yes: John Bunyan was “other people” 
right enough, and a good Christian too. And I remembered 
that I had heard somewhere before of a man who wrote down 
the story of his life. In a few seconds I placed my man. 
Poor old Robinson Crewjoe. 

I ran into the kitchen. 

“Mrs. Cheese, you know Robinson Crewjoe you told me 
about, didn’t you say you could read about it all in a book 
he’d written himself?” 


243 


244 


MARY LEE 


“ ’E wrote it pon a bit buke ’e vound on the Wreck, so’s 
’e shidden virget it, I reckon, or so’s ither volk cude rade it 
arterwards — ” 

“Yes, but when did he write it?” 

“Ivry day, avore goin’ to bed nights. Ivrythin’ ’e’d been 
doin’ that day. Leastways that’s what my ol’ Uncle Zam 
oilers did, who kep’ a buke of the zame zort.” 

“What was it like? Please tell me about Uncle Sam’s 
book.” 

“Wull, my Uncle Zam, over to Exmoor, was very aiddi- 
cayted he was, a turrable ’and vur raidin’ and writin’. So 
long as ’twas a buke ’e’d love’n and spell over’n vur hours and 
as ’appy as a king, as the zayin’ is, but ’e liked best writin’ 
down in this lil buke uv ’is own — a dairy they caals un. 
Why fer I don’t knaw, ’cause tizzen much to do wi’ the milk, 
so far as I can see, and I ain’t blind neither. Wull, in this 
lil buke, and there was eight or nine uv them avore ’e died, ’e 
put down ivry blimmin’ thing ’e did, ’tis true’s I zit yer. 
Wull, when the funeral was over and all the cryin’, ’is widder — 
my ol’ Aunty Sary that was, bein’ curyus like bein’ a lil bit 
like you — thought she’d be findin’ zummat tasty in these ol’ 
dairies, and tuke it into ’er ’ead to try to rade all the eight 
bukesful, or mebbe ’twas nine. But ’er cud’n ’ardly du it, not 
bein’ aiddicayted like ’im, and when ’er vound it tuke ’er ’alf 
the day to spell over ’alf wan page, ’er got ’erself into a 
turrable upset, an threw un all pon the vire, ’ollern’ out 
‘Burn un all, burn un all, burn un all! Then ’er bangs out 
uv the rume. I was up vrom me zeat avore you cude say Bo, 
and rescued the bettermos’ part uv them avore they was burnt. 
Aw my dear days, I niver did tade zuch stuff. ’E’d put ’pon 
they bukes ivry drimpy lil thing e’d done and zeen and zed they 
vorty years: ’ow many calves the ol’ cow ’ad ’ad, how much 
butter an’ crame ’e zold to Markit, all mixed up wi’ stuff 
about the pixies ’e zaw, or thcrrt ’e zeed, top uv Exmoor o’ 
nights; and a lot o’ religyus writin,’ for ’e was a gude Christ- 
yen for all ’is pixies and goblins, wi’ plenty ’o sound stuff 
’bout ’Eaven and ’Ell, and a middlin’ gude dale about ’is 
sowl . . 

These were valuable hints. My resolve was confirmed. I 


DAIRY 245 

would follow in the footsteps of John Bunyan and Robinson 
Crewjoe and Uncle Zam. 

That day, October the Twelfth 1860 (thirty-seven years ago 
come Tuesday), in the unused half of an old blue-covered 
exercise book, I began. With what a sense of pride, of im* 
portance, of creativeness, of high adventure, I scrawled in 
great flourishing capitals my heading: 

THE LIFE OF MARY LEE 
Written By Herself. 

My opening sentence was this: “I was born at Tawborough 
on March the Second, 1848.” I have put it also on the first 
page of this present record, which from now, my thirteenth 
year onwards, is but a matured, shortened and bowdlerized ver- 
sion of the diary, eked out — more often for atmosphere than 
detail — by memory. The keeping of the diary, however, 
weakened my memory; which, though of its old photographic 
accuracy in what it held, yet held far less. I did not need to 
remember things, I said to myself: I could always find them 
in the book. Certainly for the first few years, I could have 
found there everything that was worth reading, as well as 
everything that wasn’t; in later years, alas, I have succumbed 
to the fatal habit of compact little paragraphs epitomizing 
whole weeks, and even months, as fatal as the Sundries habit in 
a household account-book. Indeed, despite the pathetic len- 
iency we show towards the trivial when it is the trivial in our 
own life, I find the earlier pages of my diary tiresomely full; 
far too fond of “What we had for dinner” or “Aunt Jael’s 
scripture at this evening’s worship.” 

As I told my diary everything, it began to take the place of 
my other self, and it is in this sense that I mean that the 
feeling of dual personality was weakened. The self-to-self 
talks became fewer; the sense of a person telling and a person 
told was blurred. Unspoken notes in a grimy exercise book 
took their place; although at first, and always in exciting pas- 
sages, I would talk aloud, and take down, so to say, from my 
own dictation. 

This early diary is morbid, precocious, shrewd, petty, prig- 
gish, and comically, pitifully sincere. Religion looms large, 


MARY LEE 


246 

with food a bad second. This is natural enough. John 
Bunyan’s whole aim was A Brief Revelation of the Exceed- 
ing Mercy of God in Christ to his poor Servant, John Bunyan; 
Robinson Crewjoe was not the man to let slip any opportunity 
for a pious ejaculation, a moral reflection or a godly aside; 
while Uncle Zam, according to his niece, took a middlin’ 
gude deal of interest in his “Sowl.” These great exemplars 
helped to increase what would have been in any case a heavy 
disproportion of holy matter. This kind of thing is typical 
of the earlier years: — 

Feb. 13. Woke still worried by the problems of Infinity in Time and 
Space, tho’ less despairing and appalled than the day before. I pray, 
pray, PRAY ; but all the time at the back of my soul, the fear is still 
there: — Eternity faces me tho’ I dare not face Him, and Where may 
my Eternity not be spent? Perhaps “One Day at a Time” is the only 
way. A wet day. Read Exodus this afternoon. Aunt Jael rough; so 
held forth to the Lawn children this evening. They are too appreciative ; 
roar with laughter at everything I say; it does me good, though this 
is set off by the harm done me by encouragement in self-esteem. But 
no, no, no — I have a good and great ideal for this Mary, that I must 
strive to fulfil; and petty ministerings to her (my) vanity must be 
quashed and that right sternly. Laurie Prideaux gave me some choc- 
olate cream. He is an obliging, kind, childlike, good, conceited boy. 
Polony for supper. 

Sunday. Meeting. Bro. Quappleworthy on the Personal God. Saw 
Joe Jones, I think in Bear Street: must be on holiday from Bristol. 
Mrs. Cheese thought he was back. He did not see me; as he never 
looked towards or acknowledged me, I assumed did not. To Lord’s 
Day School, two prayer-meetings, and Gospel-Service this evening. 
Very weary. 

Like Uncle Zam on Aunt Sary, I indulged in a good deal 
of “plain-spaikin” on Aunt Jael. The diary thus became in- 
vested with a halo of danger. Suppose she found it in one 
of its many (and changing) hiding-places! She would beat 
me utterly, burn the diary, and mock cruelly at its contents. 
Yet it was from my Grandmother that I hid it with my most 
ardent cunning. She would neither beat, nor burn, nor mock, 
but I knew she would condemn it as “morbid” (the word 
is a later acquisition), and search me with her kind common- 
sense eyes; and I should be covered with shame. Not guilty 
shame, rather the shame a man feels when his naked soul is 
shown to the world; the shame I always felt when caught red- 


DAIRY 247 

handed in one of my self-to-self declarations in the attic. What 
if other eyes should read this for instance? 

1860. Sept. 25. There are three months just to Christmas. Then 
l shall kiss Robbie. 

All through my life these books of revelation have dogged 
me with the daily fear that through them I should be found 
out; now that they have served their purpose in helping me 
to compile this more permanent record, I have decided, like 
Aunt Sary, to “burn un all.” (Or nearly decided; it is hard 
for a woman to destroy memorials of the past.) 

The precautions I took, beyond subtle hiding, were: prayer, 
magic, and the etching in red ink on each exercise-book-cover 
of this Device: — 


PRIVATE 

SHAME! 

ON WHOEVER MAY THINK EVEN OF READING THIS 
BOOK. 

SHAME! 

Whether in the worst of us, e. g. Aunt Jael, curiosity is not 
a stronger passion than fear, and whether therefore this 
curiosity-tempting cover might not do more harm than good, 
was a problem and a worry that continually assailed me. 

In connection with the diary, I must speak of the Resolves 
or Resolutions I began to make. These were a result, on one 
side of my growing sense of sin (egotism, ambition, triumph, 
revenge, hate, greed, dirt, doubt), and on another side of an 
exactly opposite desire to realize my imagined ambitions by 
equipping myself to achieve them (wide knowledge, better 
health, nicer looks) . They were written on half-sheets of note- 
paper, which I immediately put in an envelope. This was 
sealed and hidden in between the pages of that day in the 
diary on which the resolution was formed. The moment the 
least part of the current resolve was broken — I knew it always 
by heart — I had to break open the envelope and begin afresh. 
The old unkept resolve I placed in the page of the day on 
which it was broken. Thus an enveloped, sealed, still-in-ac- 
tion Resolve was kept with the day in which it was formed, a 


2 4 £ 


MARY LEE 


discarded one on the day on which I fell. I usually began 
again on a day that would give me a clean start, such as the 
first of the month, or a magic date, or some special anniversary. 
Here is one that had a pretty long run: — 


March 9th, 1861. 

My Mother died thirteen years ago today — Therefore from now on- 
wards I DO RESOLVE:— 

I. EVERY DAY 

To drink a glass of cold water before breakfast and 
at night (better than senna) 

To go for a walk 

To brush my hair well 
To clean my teeth hard 

To learn at least seven new verses of the Word by 
heart and revise seventeen old ones 


To tell the Lord everything in prayer 
II. NEVER 

To steal oatmeal from the larder (as I did three times last 
week) 

To think dirty things (as I did last Wednesday when I laughed 
when Mrs. Cheese said Aunt Jael’s drawers were like two red 
bladders) . 

HI. ALWAYS 

To eat slowly (37 bites to each mouthful) 

To be like God would like. 

RESOLVED, with Mother’s help 

Mary Lee. 

20 minutes past 6. 

March 9th, 1861. 

For any one to whom this absurd document is absurd only, 
comment would be but adding insult to injury. Here is an- 
other : — 

New Year’s Day , 1862. 

(Beginning *of a new year and third anniversary of my Flight from 
Torribridge) 

For this year I am going to make no special resolutions put out 
in a list but at 

EVERY 

moment I shall ask myself this question: 


1 To help 
me be 
I healthy 

To help 
>- me be 
J pretty 

1 To help 

> me be 
good 

1 To help 

> me be 

J Him 


DAIRY 


249 


WHAT WOULD THE LORD DO IF HE WERE ME? 

Then I shall never do wrong, and I shall be fitted and worthy for 
His service. 

So with His help I sign 

Mary Lee. 

Jan. 1st, 1862. 

10.30 (a.m.) 

This magnificent resolve seems not to have been specific 
enough, alas, for my frail endeavours; under a date but six or 
seven weeks later I find this: — 

1862. this year’s resolve. 

(New Version) 

WHAT WOULD THE LORD DO IF HE WERE ME? 

EVERY DAY 

(1) He would pray, hiding nothing. 

(2) He would learn a new piece of the Word, and more than Aunt Jael 
made Him. 

(3) He would be clean (ears, face, nails, teeth, hands, heart). 

(4) He would go a nice long walk (instead of “poking indoors” as 
She calls it) 

AND HE WOULD NEVER 

(5) Have sinful thoughts like 

Spite 

Vengeance 

Vileness 

Pride 

(6) Say sinful words, like 


(7) Like sinful things, like 
Praise 
Riches 
Eating 

The Pleasure I have whenever the worst part of the “For 
Ever” Fear is over 

Flattery 

Fame 

(Signed) Mary. 

Feb. 19th, 1862. 

If this era of diaries and resolutions saw the two-persons 
idea for a while less distinct, all the other mysteries of my 
earlier days remained. I still, for instance, put everything I 
did to the test of reason and instinct, obeying always the latter. 
I believed more than ever in my private magic and was per- 


250 


MARY LEE 

suaded that there were special acts, gestures and words which 
would enable me to perform miracles, if only I could discover 
them. Dreaming away during Breaking of Bread at the Room, 
I would be assailed by the desire to turn the wine in the two 
glass decanters into water; Lord’s Day after Lord’s Day I 
sought the magic gesture in vain. I knew there was a word 
that, if cried aloud, just once, would enable me to soar upward 
to the sky and fly about angel-like among the stars. I never 
found it, though a hundred times it was on the tip of my tongue, 
till I was half wild with hope. Another well-cherished notion 
was this: that if my mother came to me again, and we could 
achieve a complete embrace, she would be able to take me away 
with her to heaven for a space, till a moment when she kissed 
me again, before the very face of God, and I would swiftly re- 
turn to earth. 

The only magic with which I actually succeeded, or believed 
I did (which is the same) was Numbers. 1, 10, 17, 437, 777 
were magic: 7 and 237 were big magic; 37 was arch-magic, the 
Holy Number. In every need I called upon them. If Aunt 
Jael were flogging me, what I had to do was to count a per- 
fectly even 37, timing it to finish at the same moment as her 
last stroke. I believed positively that it eased my hurt, and I 
believe so still, for my attention was concentrated not on Aunt 
Jael’s blows but on my magic: so far, if no farther, is faith- 
healing a fact. Or I would jump out of bed in the morning, 
and begin to count, always evenly. If when I finished dressing, 
I was at a magic number (the correct moment was when I shut 
the bedroom door behind me, though for a second chance I al- 
lowed reaching the bottom stair) then the whole day would be 
lucky. Or out in the street, the amount of house frontage I 
could cover in thirty-seven strides I believed positively would 
be the same as the frontage of the big house I should one day 
possess. So, like the peasant in Count Tolstoi’s tale, I strode 
mightily. 

A big house was one of my few material ambitions at this 
time, with money to spend on grand furniture for it (“Riches,” 
vide Resolution of 19|2|62). Even here my need was chiefly 
a spiritual one. I thought that in a vast house, utterly alone, I 
should have a perfect place for practising echoes, one of the 
means by which I hoped to solve the riddle of my existence. 


DAIRY 251 

In the midst of a deathly silence I should stand in the great 
marble hall and shout. 

“Mary Lee, what are you? What are you?” 

A hundred echoes would swiftly call back through the si- 
lence, and I was on the brink of understanding 

A different method of solving the haunting riddle was to 
whisper my own name quite suddenly in a silent room, when 
alone with myself. Sometimes the physical effect was so cu- 
rious that I was certain of success. Fervent praying to the 
point of ecstasy, more often to the point of exhaustion, was 
another way. Sometimes I was able, it seemed, to disembody 
myself; my soul left my body (at which it could look back as 
though it belonged to some one else) and wandered nowhere, 
everywhere, becoming in some half -realized fashion a part of 
everything in space, and an inhabitant of all periods of time. 
I remembered, in the fleeting fashion of dreams, things I had 
done before I was born, in some hitherto unremembered life. 
Then, again, things I had done still earlier, in distant lives and 
far-away centuries; till, at last, I remembered myself for ever 
and for ever in the past, and my soul fled back into my body to 
hide from the new terror: Eternity behind as well as before me, 
the unpitying everlastingness of the past as of the future. 

The latter was still the unappeasable fear which hung like 
an evil menace over every moment of my life. If I thought it 
out and lived through the mad blinding moment of terror as my 
brain battered itself against Infinity, I gained nothing; the 
terror flung me back. If I was wise, and refused to think of it, 
I knew myself for an ostrich with my head in the sand. If I 
dared not face it, it was there beholding me just the same, un- 
conquered, unconquerable. 

Was there no escape? The only notion I could conceive, 
and which I cherished with most desperate hope, was that Love, 
if ever it could possess my whole soul and being, would slay 
the King of Terrors once for all. How could Love so come to 
me? Sometimes I thought it would be God. I knew that my 
Grandmother had a joy, a serene and fearless delight in the 
love of the Lord, which I did not share. I prayed fervently 
for this: that I might know the peace of God, which is perfect 
understanding; that I might possess this divine love, which I 
could see in her but did not feel in myself ; that it might free 


252 


MARY LEE 


me from the Fear which darkened my soul. And sometimes I 
thought it would be Robbie. In his kind embrace, not in fool- 
ish echoes or magical tricks, might I find a perfect happiness 
which would transform and transfigure me, till I could turn a 
laughing face upon the Terror. Then would I long for Eter- 
nity; an Eternity of Love. And my body and soul would fly 
hack to Christmas Night. Ah tender arms around me, ah dear 
little boy beside me, ah tears, ah joy, ah Robbie! 


CHAPTER XXI: I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN 


“Do ’ee love the Lord?” my Grandmother was for ever ask- 
ing. 

“Yes, Grandmother,” I always replied. 

Down in my heart I knew it was not true. There was belief 
in me, and awe; but of that passion for God which I envied in 
her, no semblance. If it were really love I felt for Him (I put 
it to myself) “my heart would warm within me whenever I 
think of Him, as it does when I think of Robbie: or of Mother.” 
When I tried to conjure Him up, all I could ever see was a 
blurred bearded man on a high grey throne; and if I peered 
harder for face and features, a dark mist like a rain-cloud al- 
ways filled the space where they should be. 

I knew I could never love Any One Whose face I could never 
see. 

“You do not love Him as you do Robbie,” kept saying the 
accusing voice within. It is true, and the thought horrified 
me. Until I could feel this greater love, I knew I had not “got 
religion.” 

For all my godly upbringing, for all my pious ways, I was 
no more privileged than ninety-nine of a hundred mere aver- 
agely religious grown-ups. Like theirs, my religion was but an 
affair of education, habit, intellect, morality. The Rapture 
was withheld. I had not got religion. 

I knew my Bible as well as any child in England, and I 
loved it as well. I believed in all the doctrines of the Saints, 
not vaguely either, like a normal unreflecting child: but had 
pondered on them, and within my capabilities thought them out 
and personally accepted them. No atheist doubts oppressed 
me. The Tempter had not assailed me, as he had assailed 
my friend John Bunyan, with “Is Christianity no better than 
other religions, just one religion among many?” and other 
such wicked doubts. But I had not got religion. 

And fear beset me: fear of other people, of the Devil, of 
Eternity, and, now as I grew older, of myself. The glimpses 
I had of the evil natures in me affrighted me. Sometimes 

25'3 


254 


MARY LEE 


in brooding over some wrong done me, my imagination ran 
riot in fantastic excesses of cruelty and revenge till I drew 
back appalled at the horrors of which, in thought at any rate, 
I was capable. I would brood over the unhappiness of my 
life and the injustice meted out to me every day, till my soul 
was a dark seething mass of revengefulness and hate. Not 
till I found myself visualizing the very act of murder did 
I draw back affrighted. 

With the change in my nature that came as I grew into girl- 
hood, a new series of evil visions possessed me. I found my- 
self picturing fleshly and disgraceful things, things I had 
never heard of nor known to be possible, thrown up from the 
wells of original sin within. Pleasurable sensations lured 
me on till I drew back appalled at the sickening deeds that I, 
godly little Plymouth Sister, conceived myself as doing. Of 
course they were things I never should really do — oh dear 
no! that was foul, unimaginable! — but Conscience quoted 
Matthew five, twenty-eight, and though I stuffed my fingers in 
my ears she kept dinning it. You have committed it already 
in your heart. 

I had no sense of proportion, and believed myself a very 
monster of vileness: a vileness, I feared, which would cling 
and canker till it deformed my soul and body and face; and 
I saw myself, a loathsome shape, living on for ever with 
increasing self-loathing through all the pitiless eternal years. 
My blood froze with fear as my mind’s eye stared fascinated 
at the shameful shape. I screamed as madmen scream. 

Madness I often feared. In my imaginings of Eternity, 
let me one day go but a single step too far, let me suffer 
the awful ecstasy of fear to hold me but a second too long, and 
I knew my reason would be fled. So about this time I added 
to my prayers: “God, save me from going mad.” 

But fear, though never far away, and the sense of wicked- 
ness, though always near the surface, were not masters of 
every moment. The one thing that never left me was a feel- 
ing of unsatisfiedness, incompleteness. The world seemed an 
empty place, my soul an empty vessel. I had a melancholy 
sureness that something, the chief thing, the secret of happi- 
ness, was lacking me. I believed that this secret could only 
be discovered in the love of God: that there only could I 


I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN 255 

find, as my Grandmother had found, the peace and delight 
which pass all understanding. That alone was religion, and 
I had it not. 

“Do ’ee love the Lord?” my Grandmother was for ever 
asking. 

To possess the love of God became the aim of all my pray- 
ers and hopes. It alone could save me from my evil self, 
quell my bad desires, dispel my fears, and fill the aching void. 
How could I possess it? The conviction seized me one day, 
how or why I do not know, that I should obtain it in the 
moment at which I was baptized; not before, and in no other 
way. Once the idea had come, it would not leave me; to hasten 
on my public immersion became the chief endeavour of my life. 

Grandmother was nothing loth, for it was her own dearest 
wish. My age, she said, might be raised in objection: I was 
not yet thirteen. Had I surely faith? — I gave her passionate 
proofs — then God’s requirements were fulfilled. She spoke 
to Aunt Jael, and both of them to Pentecost Dodderidge, who 
agreed ardently. 

The Brethren do not of course practise infant baptism. 
However, children of about my age could be, and very occas- 
ionally were, baptized, provided they gave surpassing proofs 
of holiness. Faith, not age, as the Bible shows, is the only 
test of fitness. But certain of the Saints in our Meeting, 
influenced whether by “common-sense,” or by the rankling 
notion that none of their children ever had been or ever would 
be admitted to baptism at such a tender age, began to murmur, 
and spoke privily to Pentecost against the project. Brother 
Browning took the bolder course of taking my Grandmother 
herself to task. Dark doubts beset him, he declared, scrip- 
tural doubts; though his real motive was jealousy for Marcus. 

“Unscriptural?” said my Grandmother in amaze. “Have 
you read your acts of the Apostles, Brother Browning? Faith, 
not years or rank or race is what the Scripture requires. Think 
of Crisp us, Cornelius, the jailor of Philippi, Lydia seller of 
purple! Turn to your eighth chapter: Philip and the Ethiop- 
ian eunuch: ‘See, here is water, what doth hinder us to be 
baptized?’ Does Philip answer ‘But tell me first your age?’ 
No, he answers: ‘If thou believest with all thine heart, thou 
mayest.’ ” 


256 MARY LEE 

She turned to me. “Child, do you believe with all your 
heart?” 

“Yes, Grandmother.” 

Turning in triumph to Brother Browning: “The Scripture 
is satisfied. And,” she added, “Mr. Pentecost approves.” 

Brother Browning was confounded. Neverthless, but for the 
affection in which Grandmother was held, and Aunt Jael’s 
prestige, both backed by the insurmountable authority of 
Pentecost, I am pretty sure that some of the Saints would have 
resisted further. In face of that Trinity, they were dumb. 

So it was settled, and I began a term of “preparation.” 
Grandmother enjoined that I turn my mind wholly on heavenly 
things. She held devotions with me at all hours, praying 
sometimes far into the night. Pentecost himself came in to 
pray with me, while those who had raised objections were 
invited specially to test my faith. Brother Browning came, — 
like the Queen of Sheba, to prove me with hard questions. 
Like Solomon, I emerged triumphant. 

As the time drew near, sometimes my excitement could 
hardly contain itself. My visions of the Moment became more 
detailed, more delirious, more intense. At the very moment 
of immersion the old Wicked Me would instantly die and a New 
Self come into being: in a second, Eve would be driven out 
and Christ implanted for ever in my soul. At one magical 
stroke I should possess happiness and be freed from all fear 
and wickedness and emptiness of heart. The love of God 
would not enter me slowly, gradually; but would storm me 
like a victorious army, swallow me like the sea. 

As part of my preparation,, I was taken by Grandmother 
to one or two baptisms. Ceremonies were held from time to 
time, according as there were sufficient candidates. Our Meet- 
ing baptized not only for ourselves but also for the Branch 
Meeting and all the villages around. The number of persons 
immersed ranged from two or three to a dozen. The ceremony 
took place in the Taw, following Scripture example; at a spot 
just beyond the quay and the ships, a few yards from where the 
Town railway-station for Ilfracombe now stands. Here the 
river was shallow; you could wade nearly into mid-stream. 
Robing and re-robing took place at White House, Brother 
Brawn’s tumble-down residence near by. Now that Pentecost 


I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN 257 

was too old, Brother Brawn was our Baptist. The usual time 
was Lord’s Day morning; very early, to avoid a jeering crowd. 

At the second of these ceremonies that I was taken to see, 
a strange incident occurred. Despite the day and hour, we 
were never quite without a few scoffers, who would stand 
on the shore a little way away from our company, and shout 
and mock at the proceedings in the water. On this particular 
occasion two men who looked like labourers appeared, not 
on shore, but in a small boat in mid-stream; where they re- 
mained cat-calling and jeering while we held our preliminary 
service on the river bank. Brother Brawn waded out with the 
convert — a fair-haired young man whose name I do not re- 
member — till the water was about up to their middles. The 
two men in the boat rowed nearer till they were within a few 
yards only; but farther out, and therefore in a deeper place. 
The river was at high tide. 

“Look ’ee at the dippers, the sheep dippers!” they cried? 
then to Brother Brawn, * ’Tis too early yet for the dippin’, 
master, ’tis a’most winter still.” They used foul words and 
sneered blasphemously, taking God’s name in vain. 

We on the shore had noticed a dog with them in the boat, 
a little terrier, shaggy and brown. When Brother Brawn began 
the actual act of immersion and dipped the fair-haired young 
Brother’s head under water, one of the men in the boat began 
a blasphemous imitation. He took the dog by the scruff of 
the neck, held it over the edge of the boat, and kept dipping 
its head under the water. After each word of Brother Brawn’s 
he cried out: “I baptize thee, 0 Brother Dog, i’ the name o’ 
the Vather, o’ the Zun — ” 

We were too horrified to speak or move. I know my face 
was scarlet with shame; and I prayed within: “0 God, stop 
him, strike him low. Stop his mouth. Punish him now,” 
I saw Grandmother was saying a like prayer. 

God replied before our eyes. The mocking man, in a mis- 
judged movement, bent over too far with the dog. In a second 
the boat was overturned, and men and dog were in the water 
together, struggling and splashing. (Brother Brawn’s back 
was turned; I do not think he knew what was happening.). 

Where the boat had overturned it was clearly much deeper*, 
as neither of the men could stand. One managed to swim in 


258 


MARY LEE 


safety to the opposite bank. The other, the chief mocker, 
struggled, rose, disappeared, rose again, and finally disap- 
peared, gurgling and gesticulating horribly. 

Those of us on shore were purged with awe and terror. 
“God is not mocked!” cried Pentecost. 

After the service, the dead body was washed ashore; I gazed 
in dumb horror (thinking too of God’s power) at the star- 
ing wide-open eyes, the blue face contorted with fear, the soft 
white foam issuing from the mouth. 

The dog was saved. Brother Brawn took it away with him 
and had it poisoned. 

This incident served to tinge with apprehension the hopes 
with which I looked forward to my own immersion, now very 
near. Suppose I were drowned: in my own way I was wicked 
as the labourer, with better chances and less excuse. God could 
drown me if He wished. The mere physical horror of cold 
water was another fleck. Nor was Mrs. Cheese behindhand 
with tales that troubled. She recalled the young woman in a 
rapid decline who had been baptized one winter morning in 
the Exe, had been dragged out unconscious, and had died with- 
in the hour. She knew of Sisters who had fainted through 
nervousness or collapsed with the cold. Then there was the 
Christian wife who was stripped naked and horsewhipped by 
her infidel husband, a country squire over Chittlehampton 
way, because she had received public baptism. He flogged her 
till she was a mass of blood and wounds, till she fell to the 
ground as one dead; then dragged her up again and dashed her 
head against a stone wall. She died from ill-usage, a true 
“gauspel martyr.” 

My day was fixed: our next baptism, a Sunday in April, a 
few weeks after my thirteenth birthday. 

Clothes were a problem. Female candidates usually donned 
for the occasion an old cast-off skirt which they could 
afford to let the water ruin. Pieces of lead were sewn at 
intervals to the inside of the bottom of the skirt, so that when 
in the water the air would not get into and blow it upwards. 

According to Aunt Jael, the pieces of lead should weigh 
about four ounces each: just sufficient to keep the skirt pen- 
dant and modest. All very well, said my Grandmother, but 
what good were weights — four ounces or forty ounces — when 


I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN 259 

the skirt, like the child’s, reached down to the knees only? 
There was only one way out of the difficulty: “The child 
must wear a long skirt for the occasion.” A faded black serge 
of my Grandmother’s was unearthed. It fitted me — more or 
less — though a good couple of inches higher in front than 
behind; and, helped out by an old black blouse and cape, pro- 
duced the most grotesque and unlovely Mary the mirror had 
ever shewn me. 

“Changing” was at Brother Brawn’s, the White House, near 
the quay. On the Saturday night preceding the event Grand- 
mother took me down there with my ordinary Lord’s Day 
clothes wrapped up in a paper parcel and laid them out in the 
back kitchen (the immemorial after-the-event robing room) 
ready for the morrow. Mistress Brawn, nee Clinker, received 
us with an infantile affectation of patronage: as though we 
didn’t know that Brother Brawn’s had been the garmenting- 
house for forty years and more. 

The morrow dawned fine and cold. With Grandmother on 
my left hand and Aunt Jael on my right, I sallied forth down 
Bear Street, in full baptismal kit of faded black. What the 
few early risers we met on our way thought of me I do not 
know. Nor, I expect, did they. 

Though he had relinquished the office of Baptist for several 
years, Pentecost Dodderidge decided to resume it for this one 
occasion. It was a supreme honour for me, a high compli- 
ment to Aunt Jael and Grandmother, and a real risk and 
sacrifice on his part: for he was in frail health, and nearing 
his eighty-fourth year. At the riverside we found him waiting, 
clad in the black surplice he had always used, his white beard 
flowing free. Around him the Saints stood clustered; every 
man and woman in the Meeting must have been there. 

All there, whispered the Devil, to see you. You the child- 
Saint, you the youthful trophy of God’s grace. There were 
other candidates, I knew, mere everyday grown-ups; but I 
was the “star turn,” and I first should enter the water. The 
moment was very near: “Be ready,” whispered Grandmother. 
My heart beat wildly. The air was sharp and a cold breeze 
was stirring. How much colder would the water not be! 
Cold dark water, suppose it should engulph me for ever? 
How blue the mocking labourer had been. But God would 


260 


MARY LEE 


not treat me so: my heart was aching to receive Him. He 
would come to me, not cast my body to death. How all the 
Saints were staring. Vanity swelled again. I was the young- 
est who had ever been baptized in Taw (I heard it whispered 
near me), the youngest ever privileged to break bread! Were 
not all the people gazing on me, admiring my piety, special- 
ness, distinction? Ah, publicity, glory! I would walk into 
the water in the view of all the multitude, like an empress on 
her way. “Crush that vile vanity!” the Better Me cried sav- 
agely: “Chase forth that paltry pride. Only to a clean and 
humble heart can the Lord of Heaven come. Quick, away with 
it!” Ere the voice had done speaking, all the pride had fled 
away. My heart stood empty, sure of its emptiness, hunger- 
ing for the Holy Spirit, waiting with intense expectation and 
a hope almost too hard to bear. 

“Come, Lord Jesus,” I whispered. 

Meanwhile around me they had sung a hymn and prayed a 
prayer; I hardly knew it. Pentecost took my hand. The 
moment was here: should I die of hope? — my heart was beat- 
ing so. We waded out together in the cold stream. I must 
have been looking eastwards for I remember the bright morn- 
ing sun was in my eyes. I can see again the green fields 
opposite. I remember too how frail and tiny I felt as Mr. 
Pentecost’s hand held mine, and as he towered above me in the 
water. 

A long way out we halted: I wasi up to my shoulder nearly, 
he to his middle. He grasped me, placing his right hand 
under my left armpit, and the palm of his left hand flat in 
the middle of my back. He looked to heaven, holding me 
still upright, and called in a loud voice: “I do baptize thee, 
my sister, in the name of the Father and of the Son and the 
Holy Ghost.” On the last word he flung me backwards until 
for a moment I was wholly under the water. 

Now the miracle took place. As I came up again the water 
streaming from my face was no longer cold, but warm and 
luminous; not water at all, but light itself. Light suffused 
me, covered me, poured into me, filled me; a blinding, lilting 
joy and brightness throbbed and shone through all my body 
and soul. I shut my eyes in sheer rapture; my ordinary senses 
faded away; sight and hearing were of another world from 


261 


I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN 

this beatific Presence. It seemed as though another person, 
luminous and divine, had entered into my body. It was God. 
I knew everything; and everything was well. I remembered 
all I had ever done, and far away things I had done in dis- 
tant centuries in other lives I had not known until now. I 
seemed to remember the future too; for in that moment Time 
had no meaning; that moment was all Eternity. I understood, 
with a perfectness of comprehension beside which all my life 
before seemed darkness that there was no beginning and no 
end, no time and no space, nothing but God Who transcended 
them all, and who now possessed me utterly. I thought my 
heart would burst. The holy exaltation was too hard and 
beautiful to bear. All round and in me was light and love: 
the sun and God and I, all the same soul and body, all merged 
together, all within each other, all One. For that one glor- 
ious moment I was God. 

A transcendent experience transcends all verbal description: 
even now I cannot think of it: only feel it, live it again. Nor 
can explanation impart its quality to others. It is my soul’s 
own mystery, indescribable, incommunicable, in the most 
literal sense ineffable. I rail at words that they can do so 
little, then at my own folly that I should seek to describe in 
finite language the Infinite Mystery of God. 

The ecstasy lasted perhaps, in the world’s time, a minute: 
though, in reality, for ever. Then I remember, as I woke to 
finite experience, a gradual ebbing sensation as the Holy 
Spirit departed from me. The warmth and radiance faded; 
the streaming fluid of light was dripping water only. I was 
conscious of Pentecost again, clasping my hand and leading 
me ashore. I heard the voices of the Saints raised aloft in a 
song of triumphal thanks. Then — Grandmother’s welcoming 
arms, benignant Saints, the White House, garment-changing, 
loud Salvation, dear warm breakfast; all part of a waking 
dream. 

The results of Jordan morning were chiefly four. 

First, I was left with a certainty of belief in God, a sense 
of authority in my knowledge of Him, and an ever-present mem- 
ory of His nearness and reality, that faith without experience 
could never have furnished. I apprehended once and for all 


262 MARY LEE 

the folly and futility of all intellectual reasoning about God, 
all attempts to bolster Him up by argument; to prove Him. 
Vain beatings about the bush! You do not beat about the 
Burning Bush: you enter within, and there is God. 

Second, from that day onwards I could never again be 
sure that life was real. After the blinding reality of my 
moment with God, all things around me seemed faded and un- 
substantial; they were the shadows of a dream, of the dream 
that I was alive. After a while, as my soul travelled back 
to the habits of normal experience, the notion haunted me 
less; but it has never completely left me. 

Third, having received the knowledge of God, I knew that it 
was the one thing worth living for. I knew I must show myself 
worthy of possessing Him, and fit to receive Him again. The 
sense of perfect holiness I had experienced filled me with a 
yearning for goodness and purity that was almost morbidly 
intense. I tried every moment of the day to make myself 
more like the Holy Spirit, more capable of feeling within 
me the holiness I had for one moment felt. Conscience was 
ever at hand: for a long space I obeyed her every bidding. 
The fact that I was happier put spite and revenge and morbid 
broodings under better control. Heredity and habit, the taint 
within and the harsh surroundings without, kept me dismal- 
jenny enough: but from the day of my baptism my bouts of 
misery were less frequent, less prolonged, and less cruel. I had 
always the memory of that tender triumphant ineffable mo- 
ment with God. 

Fourth, and most curious, I found myself farther away from 
my Grandmother. We had the same religion, yet different 
religions; knew the One God, yet different Gods. Or rather 
the difference was not in Him, but in our two selves, in the 
two temperaments with which we experienced Him. All my 
life I had envied my Grandmother’s joy and serenity in the 
Lord; I had obtained a joy as perfect, yet I knew that it was 
another joy; not greater nor less, but different. Her chief 
delight was in contemplating the salvation of all souls 
achieved through the sacrifice on Calvary; mine was the Spirit 
of God filling and irradiating the heart. Not that I ever 
doubted that it was through and because of the Cross that the 
knowledge of the Lord had been vouchsafed me so miracu- 


I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN 263 

lously; but the emotional result interested me, not the theo- 
logical cause. In all my earnest strivings to be good it was 
never the sacrifice of Jesus that spurred me on; but always 
the memory of the Holy Spirit. I must be clean and good 
and holy like Him, and worthy to welcome Him again. I 
have put the distinction between Aunt Jael and Grandmother 
as this: Aunt Jael was an Old Testament woman, Grandmother 
a New Testament one. But the real distinction between the 
three of us was this. God is Triune and One: Aunt Jael revered 
the First Person, Grandmother loved the Second, and I adored 
the Third. 

Trouble began in this way. Unlike Grandmother, now that 
I had got religion I took a strong dislike to talking of it. 
To her “Do ’ee love the Lord?” I could only reply with pas- 
sionate truth, “Yes, Grandmother”; but I found that (where 
before my baptism it was the sense of insincerity in my reply 
that had troubled me) now it was a certain indelicacy in the 
question itself that offended. “If in my heart” — this is ap- 
proximately what I felt — “I have the mystery of the love of 
the Lord, that is a private and sacred bond between Him and 
me. Whose business is it else? What right have they to 
pry?” I felt a curious shame, resembling the shame of naked- 
ness, but more intense and spiritual; as the soul is more sen- 
sitive than the body. 

“Do you contemplate hourly the Cross of Christ?” “Is the 
Means of Salvation your only joy?” “Do you think always 
of the blessed Gospel plan?” “Is the Atonement everything 
to ’ee, my dear?” No worldlyhead, no scoffer could have 
hated these searching questions as did I. My Grandmother 
perceived the distaste, and was profoundly puzzled and pained. 
Her own answer to these questions would have been “Yes,” 
in the weeks after her baptism (she must have said to herself), 
a fervent triumphant Yes. 

One day an incident showed how wide the spiritual breach 
was becoming, and widened it still further. It was a Saturday 
morning: I was sitting on the bottom stair of the stair- 
case, pulling on my boots to go for a walk. My Grandmother, 
coming from the little pantry at the head of the cellar steps, 
stooped down as she passed, and asked in a loud whisper of 
intense earnestness: “The Cross, my dear: is it giving you joy 


MARY LEE 


264 

now?" She bent and peered, poking her face right into 
mine. It was so sudden, the irritation and distaste so power- 
ful, that I drew back sharply with a quick gesture of annoy- 
ance. There had been no time for dissimulation, and the look 
on my face was unmistakable. So was the look on hers — 
pain, and a rare and terrible thing, anger. 

“You dare draw back like that? What is it? Du my breath 
smell bad?" 

The real crisis, I saw, was yet to come. Now that I had 
got religion (in my fashion, in God’s fashion, for me) I knew 
that I was never destined to fulfil my Grandmother’s pur- 
pose: to devote my life to preaching the Gospel in heathen 
lands. The first moment I thought of this after my baptism 
I realized with* a shivering aversion how much more distaste- 
ful my long-decided future was than it had ever appeared 
before; I realized too in the old authentic way, that it was not 
God’s will or purpose for me; and but for this, I was far too 
honest, in my new frame of mind, to have let my own distaste 
count for anything. I reflected how odd it was that through 
the great central act of my dedication, I had become unable to 
fulfil its ultimate purpose. But so it was. The same answer 
came to all my prayers, unspoken and afoot, or cried out on 
bended knees: His purpose for me was no missionary one, but 
my best endeavours in an ordinary life in the everyday work- 
aday world. The conflict to come was not with Him, but with 
Grandmother. 

What would she say when the day of decision came, and 
plans and details of my apostolic career could no longer be 
evaded or postponed? What would she say? How would 
she feel? And I, how should I face her scornful accusing 
eyes? The more I pictured the inevitable instant, the more 
I feared it. 

And the everyday workaday life, where and what would it 
be? I had still the vaguest ideas on such matters, though I 
knew I should have to earn money and provide myself with 
bread: I, the mere dependent, the Charity Child as Aunt Jael 
so often described me. The question turned itself over and 
over in my brain. It was from an unexpected quarter that the 
answer came. 


CHAPTER XXII: THE RETURN OF THE 
STRANGER 


I used to visit my mother’s grave. Any one not knowing 
my Grandmother might have thought she would be glad. 
But no — “Don’t ’ee do it, my dear. Once in a way ’tis right 
enough may be. But don’t ’ee be getting too fond of grave- 
yards.” 

So I would gather flowers and put them on my mother’s 
grave without saying a word to any one. 

One Saturday morning in April, about a year after my bap- 
tism, I had picked primroses in the lanes, two great bunches, 
and was on my way back to the cemetery, which lay in Bear 
Road on the outskirts of the town, not very far above the Lawn. 
I was absorbed in my thoughts, talking away as usual to my- 
self. But when I saw a horse coming up the road towards me 
I stepped aside almost into the ditch that ran along under the 
hedgerow, and stared as one does at whatever inspires fear. 
Horses came in my mind only second to cows as objects of 
prowling terror. As the horse came nearer I looked up at its 
rider. 

My heart beat violently. I inordinately wanted him to rec- 
ognize me. He glanced at me as he approached as any horse- 
man might at a strange child on the roadside; there was 
no recognition in the deep-set eyes. He was sharper fea- 
tured and less handsome than in my memory; but the friendli- 
ness and aristocratic distinction of the face were as I had 
retained them. Set on his horse, he looked something far 
above the world I knew. Recognize me he must; I would 
make him. 

“Sir! Sir!” I cried eagerly, shrilly, feebly, with an awk- 
ward appealing gesture. 

He put his hand in his pocket and threw me a shilling. So 
he thought I was a beggar girl. I was filled with a burning 
shame of my lowly appearance and shabby clothes, though 
truth to tell they were hardly as bad as I thought them. I let 
the coin roll into the gutter. Now he was passing me. My 
determination to make him know me became desperate: the 
joy of being recognized must be mine. My heart was throb- 


266 MARY LEE 

bing as I came out into the middle of the road. I looked at 
him appealingly and cried out: 

“Westward Ho! Westward Ho!” 

He stared. 

“I’m not a beggar; I’m the little girl you gave the book to 
in Torribridge. Don’t you remember?” 

He jumped from his horse. 

“I do.” 

“Are you sure? Are you really sure?” 

“Really! How is Aunt Jael?” 

“Yes, yes, you do, you do!” 

“And is it still so very silly to say that a certain little white 
town looks glorious from the hills — ?” 

“Oh yes — ” 

“And did Uncle Simon — ” 

“Simeon,” I corrected. 

“ — Let you read the book after all? Now do you believe I 
remember, little Miss Doubting Thomas?” 

I was radiant in the light of the kind quizzical smile. 

“Of course I do. He burned it in the fire and said it was a 
wicked swearing book just when I was at the best point where 
they attack the Gold Train. That was when he began to treat 
me crueller, till at last I ran away and came back to Grand- 
mother and Aunt Jael.” 

“They live here — in Tawborough?” 

“In Bear Lawn, do you know it? Number Eight.” 

“May I be inquisitive? What is your name, little girl?” 

“Mary Lee. May I be inquisitive, please? What is your 
name?” 

“Ah, I don’t think it would interest you if you heard it.” 

“That’s not fair. Names are very important, they help you 
to know what people are like. I’m Mary, you can see that to 
look at me, I see that myself when I look in the glass. Any 
one like Aunt Jael could only be called Aunt Jael, it belongs 
to her just as much as her stick. I like names, especially fine 
names of people and places: like Ur of the Chaldees. Say it 
over slowly, in a grand way like this — Urr — of — the — Chal — 
dees! Penzance is another nice one, and Marazion: I like all 
places with a ‘z’ in them, a ‘z’ looks so rare and special. 


267 


THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 

People’s names are better still. The man we beat in the 
Armada — do you remember it was you who told me about the 
Armada first, and I thought it was an animal, but I know all 
about it now — the Spanish commander was called the Duke of 
Medina Sidonia. Roll it over on your tongue. If there is a 
Duke of Medina Sidonia alive now, I should like to marry him. 
Fancy being called the Duchess of Medina Sidonia!” 

I half closed my eyes in rapture. 

“Yes,” he said twitching just a little at the corners of his 
mouth, “you’re the same little girl.” 

I liked this observation, as I was intended to. I could see 
he was laughing at me, but liked me. I forgave the first for 
the second. 

“You have not told me your name yet. I think it must be a 
good one.” 

“If it is very good will you do the same for me as for the 
Duke of Medina Sidonia?” 

“What do you mean? Oh” — colouring — “I will see. Tell 
me your name first.” 

“No, you must promise first.” 

“Very well then, if you won’t! I can’t promise to marry 
you. I shall never marry at all.” There was a quick vision of 
Robbie. “At least I don’t think so, and anyway it would be 
some one else. Good-bye, sir, now.” We were at the cemetery 
gates: “Unless you would wait? These primroses are for my 
mother. I come here to put them on her grave.” 

“You wouldn’t like me to come?” 

“Yes, you may. I want you to.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I like you. That’s a proper reason; and she 
wouldn’t mind.” 

“Who? Your Grandmother you mean, or your aunt?” 

“No, my mother. So come, will you please? What will 
you do with your horse?” 

The horse was not to be a stumbling block. “Here, hi!” 
he called to a farmer’s lad who was passing. “Hold the mare 
for a few minutes.” 

I led the way through the gate and across the familiar 
daisied turf. We stopped at a simple grave, kerbless, grass- 


268 MARY LEE 

grown and unpretending. On a plain upright slab of stone 
was inscribed 

RACHEL TRAIES 
These are they which came out of great tribulation. 

“Here we are.” 

“Which one?” 

“This.” I pointed. 

“But, but — Traies? You told me your name was Lee.” 

“Yes, they call me Lee because my mother was called that 
before she was married, and it’s my Grandmother’s name. 
Traies is my father’s; people don’t use their father’s name un- 
less they live with him.” 

“I suppose not.” 

“What — why do you speak like that? You know him! 
You know my father!” 

“No.” 

“You’ve heard of him I can see.” 

“Well, perhaps.” 

“How? When? What does he do? Where is he?” I 
waved the primroses. 

“I don’t know any of the things you ask me, and I don’t 
know him. Honour bright. But I think I’ve heard of him, 
though of course the Mr. Traies I’ve heard of is quite likely a 
different person altogether, for the name is not so rare in 
Devonshire.” 

“Is the one you’ve heard of a wicked man?” 

“Not a very good man, perhaps.” 

“Oh, it’s the same! Say wicked, it’s what you mean. A 
vile wicked man. He cruelly treated my mother and put her 
in this grave. There, I was forgetting her. Mother dear, here 
are the primroses.” 

I knelt down and said a prayer, half aloud, more to my 
mother than to her Maker and mine. Only for a moment, and 
then very slightly, was I shy of the Stranger. Nor was there 
anything self-conscious and melodramatic in me, no enjoyment 
in performing a striking and sentimental act in front of another 
person, such as would have been experienced by most people, 
and by myself too a few years later. (I had less sense of pose 
and acting when some one else was watching me than if alone, 


269 


THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 

for I myself was the only person I performed in front of. On 
the day when I hurled “Brawling woman in a wide house” at 
Aunt Jael, it was somebody else inside me looking on and lis- 
tening who exulted in Mary’s wit. Not for some years yet did 
I begin in the more usual manner to make life a performance 
before other people.) I was silent for perhaps three minutes. 
As I rose I wiped my eyes. So I think did the Stranger. 

He said: “Would you mind if I put some flowers there too — 
wipe your knees, the grass is damp — Would you mind?” 

“Why? No, it would be very kind. But you haven’t got 
any.” 

“Some other time I shall bring them, when next I’m passing 
through Tawborough.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I like you. That’s a proper reason; and — may- 
be — she wouldn’t mind.” 

“Well, you may. We must go, it is dinner-time.” 

We reached the gate and he took his horse. Both of us knew 
we did not accept this meeting as final, each of us was waiting 
for the other to speak. I knew I could outwait him. 

“Little girl, we shall see each other again? May I write 
and ask your Grandmother or Aunt to let you come and see 
me?” 

“Grandmother, not Aunt Jael. They might be angry though. 
What are you — a Saint?” 

“A what?” 

“A Saint.” 

“No, a sinner. At least I think so. Not that I know quite 
what you mean. Still I shall risk it.” 

“When?” 

“One day. Don’t worry; not far ahead. Now good-bye.” 
His foot was in the stirrup. 

“Good-bye.” 

He was soon away up the hill. I stared him out of sight. 
He turned round once. 

I turned home, pleased and excited at the new life given to 
an old player in the drama of Me. He was a kind and in- 
teresting looking human-being, with this rare and all-impor- 
tant merit that he liked me. I felt this keenly every time he 
looked at me. I turned over in my mind whether I should 


270 


MARY LEE 


tell Grandmother and decided not to. After all the Stranger 
had said he would write to her: was it not better that she 
should learn of it from him? For this letter I waited. 

Another letter received by my Grandmother soon put all 
thought of the Stranger at the back of my head. 

One day at breakfast she read us a letter from no less a 
person than the sixth Lord Tawborough, lord of Woolthy 
Hall. The writer stated that his love for his old governess, 
reinforced by the wishes of his late revered father, induced 
him (now that he had come back to Devonshire to live) to 
hope to make the acquaintance of her mother; the more espe- 
cially as she had been wronged by one connected by kinship 
with the family and whom she had first met in his father’s 
house — his house. Would Mrs. Lee be courteous enough to 
name a day on which it would be convenient for him to call? 

I was all attention. Now I should meet a person who had 
played a part in my mother’s life, the little boy who had 
been kind to her. There was a debt to be paid here, as much 
as to any one who had been kind to my own self. How I 
should pay back I could not yet decide. A lord! Mary 
recompense a lord! 

As I thus reflected Aunt Jael was weighing up whether she 
would accord permission to His Lordship to enter her house. 

“Wull, let him come. Maybe he thinks he’s honouring us. 
Let him know a day on which he may call? The Lord’s Day! 
He can come to Meeting and learn that there’s a bit of differ- 
ence between his high position before men and his wretched 
position before his Maker. Let him come. I approve.” 

So did my Grandmother, whom natural instinct, religion, 
and the sobering experience of seventy years’ sisterhood had 
combined to teach that it was not worth while pointing out 
that it was to her that Lord Tawborough had written, or that 
the house too was equally hers, inasmuch as one seventeen- 
pounds-ten-shillings is quite as good as another. 

“Very well, Lord’s Day after next. I will ask him to come 
about ten o’clock. If he wants to, he will make the time 
suit.” 

He made it suit, arriving at a bare four minutes past the 
hour on the Lord’s Day after next. 


THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 271 

It was a big day to look forward to: except perhaps for my 
Grandmother, with her curious indifference to persons and 
events worldly. Aunt Jael pretended a scornful superiority 
which deceived nobody. That a lord, and Lord Tawborough, 
one of the great ones of the earth (and the county) was pay- 
ing a visit to Miss Vickary — for so of course the visit was an- 
nounced — was soon all round the Meeting. On the Tuesday 
preceding, the Misses Clinker discussed it all the afternoon. 

“I don’t ’old wi’ these lords,” said Miss Salvation, “the Lord 
God A’mighty is good enough for me. They ’ave pride in 
their sinful ’earts, and they imparts pride to them as receives 
em. 

“You jealous, ha, ha! Don’t you know your place?” The 
old stick thumped. 

“I du ; and well enough not to go inviting under my ’umble 
roof folks of another station in life.” 

“In this life,” corrected Glory. 

Salvation agreed. “If you was to give ’im a plain talk 
about ’is sowl, maybe the Lord would forgive the sinful 
pride in yer ’eart and render the visit fruitful and a blessing 
to ’ee both. But you won’t dare. You’ll remember ’e’s a 
lord, and fearing to offend ’im ye’ll offend yer ’eavenly Lord 
instead — ” She was ruder than she usually dared, fortified 
by the knowledge that what she said was getting home. 

“Silence, woman!” shouted Aunt Jael. “Every one of 
your foolish words is false. The young man won’t leave 
my house till he has confessed his sin and been shown the 
plan of escape. I’ve asked ’im on a Lord’s Day so that he 
goes to Meeting with us, and hears the gospel. I’ve no doubt 
for the first time in his life. He’ll be there at Breaking of 
Bread.’” 

“Aw, will ’ee?” Salvation reviewed rapidly what chance 
she would have on that occasion of attracting his lordship’s 
special notice. 

“I beg your pardon, Sister Jael, I’m sure I do. Sorry I 
spoke in ’aste; I was forgetting to jidge not so I be not jidged. 
Maybe you’re asking a few old friends up to meet him?” 

“Maybe fiddlesticks.” 

Miss Salvation groaned aloud with envy and disappoint- 
ment. If one considers the disproportionate pleasure an in- 


MARY LEE 


272 

vitation would have given, Aunt Jael may be judged mean 
in her refusal. On the other hand, poor Lord Tawborough! 

My interest in the visitor was greater than Aunt Jael’s, less 
snobbish and more dramatic. He would be the first of my 
father’s relatives I had ever met: he figured in the sacred 
story of my mother. I pictured a hundred times what he would 
be like; young, grand and impressive. He would wear a coro- 
net and carry a golden pole with ribbons floating from the top. 

At the last moment my chief attention shifted from the 
visitor to myself: from considering what he would look like 
to what I should look like to him. He was to arrive by car- 
riage, he said. Aunt Jael was to bow him into the famous 
front-room, swept and garnished for the occasion, offer him 
a chair, a glass of sherry and a biscuit, and hustle him off 
to Meeting. This was Aunt Jael’s program. Mine was 
quite as carefully worked out. I decided to stay upstairs in 
my bedroom till he came, watching his arrival from my win- 
dow, retiring so that he could not catch a glimpse of me, and 
not descending till Aunt Jael began to shout for me. Then 
I would go downstairs, ready dressed for Meeting. The ad- 
vantages were: first I looked best with my bonnet on, as it 
concealed my scraggy and unalluring hair; second, I should 
have seen him before he saw me, always a strategic advan- 
tage; third, he would see me last, after he had had time to 
absorb the lesser charms of Grandmother and Aunt Jael — 
even so does the leading lady fail to appear till y.ou have 
made the acquaintance of the lesser stars. 

I made one eleventh-hour alteration. As I heard carriage- 
wheels coming up the Lawn path, I decided, with impulsive 
generosity, not to peep at him. It would be taking an unfair 
advantage: I would let him burst on me at the same moment 
as I on him. To avoid temptation I ran away from the win- 
dow. I was specially excited. Now for some of Aunt Jael’s 
snobbery. A lord ! 

Grandmother was calling me, “Child, child!” 

Begloved, bonnetted, Bibled, I went downstairs. As I ap- 
proached the half-open parlour door, I heard Aunt Jael 
expounding my “usual” unpunctuality (a lie). My heart 
beat fast. I went in to greet our visitor. 

It was the stranger. 


THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 273 

“Good morning, little girl. So you got home all right that 
day.” He rose, smiling. The advantage was his with a ven- 
geance: poor reward for my self-sacrifice in allowing him a 
simultaneous first-sight, when I might have peeped from my 
window, discovered who he was and got through my first 
excitement alone. 

“You!” I gasped, “you’re Lord Tawborough?” My amaze- 
ment was shot through with enjoyment of Aunt Jael’s. 

“Yes, that’s the grand name I told you of. I’m not a duke, 
you see, only a humble lord. Pm so sorry; Tawborough hasn’t 
got quite the swing of Medin-a Sidon-ia, I must admit. Pm 
sorry, Your Grace.” 

“You,” I echoed, doubting if all this were not a dream. 
I clutched for a moment to see if I could feel the side of my 
bed. 

“Come now, child, explanations are due. What’s this 
mean? There’s been concealment here.” 

“ ’Tis time to be off, Jael,” whispered Grandmother, “twenty 
past.” 

“You must explain on the way; your lordship is ready too?” 
The first sentence was spoken with usual harshness slightly 
modified for the hearing of visitors, the second with an in- 
teresting mixture of deference and command. 

We sallied forth. Lord Tawborough on the outside, then 
Aunt Jael, then Grandmother, then myself. On the way, he 
related briefly his encounters with me, omitting with admir- 
able reticence his purchase of Westward Ho! and our visit 
to my mother’s grave. Our entry into the Room was stately, 
triumphant and restrained. In the Book of Judgment there 
is a big black mark against Aunt Jael in that she did forget 
she was entering the Lord’s house, in her majestic obsession 
that she was entering it with a lord. A biggish black mark 
against my name too. Grandmother alone of the four of 
us has a clean white space. For the Stranger too was proud — 
proud that he was not too proud to mind entering a Brethren 
meeting-house with humble folk, the pride of having no pride, 
the last pride of all — a huge mark his, black as night. 
Marks against all the Saints’ names too, even in that 
gathering of devout souls I could see that there were none, 
excepting always my Grandmother, who did not turn from 


274 


MARY LEE 


holy thought for an odd moment now and then to note their 
noble visitor: to feel a worldly interest in his presence. More 
appropriately I could see them observing with regret that 
he did not Break Bread (though of course he could not — it 
would have been wicked if he had) and with pleasure that he 
was not allowed to give to the box. Despite the glint of a 
gold guinea, Brother Brawn snatched our four-mouthed mon- 
ster proudly away from his outstretched hand; we would not 
take gold from a sinner, albeit a peer. 

In almost all the prayers that morning sorrowful reference 
was made to his lordship: it was hoped that in His own good 
time the Lord might turn him to Himself. After every such 
reference came “Ay-men! Ay-men!”, Salvation bellowing 
loudest. 

I was too preoccupied pondering on the extraordinary fact 
that the Stranger, my mother’s little friend, and the sixth 
Lord Tawborough, were one and the same person, to pay much 
heed to the service. One feature, however, stands in my 
memory: an eloquent utterance by Brother Briggs, who on 
this occasion outshone himself: shining face (remember he 
was an oilman) and shining words alike. His voice roared 
through the Room. 

“There’s zummat we’ve ’eard a powerful lot about jis’ 
lately: Princes. Princes dyin’ an’ marryin’ and givin’ in mar- 
ridge. 1 Princes this an’ Princes that.” (He took a deep 
breath, threw back his head, puffed out his chest, slapped it 
heartily again and again, beamed supernally, and shouted like 
a multitude.) “I’m a prince! You stares, brethrin, you 
stares in wonderment, an’ I repeats it to ’ee all; I’m a royull 
prince. Why vor? Reflect a min-ute. What is a prince? — 
Why, ’tis a King’s son, an ’ Pm the son uv a King, Pm the son 
uv a King, Pm the son uv a King /” (He slapped his breast 
resoundingly three times.) “Ay, an’ a son uv the King of 
Kings; so I’m a Prince uv Princes! Turn wi’ me to the 
twenty-second chapter of the Gauspel accordin’ to St. Luke, 
and the twenty-ninth verse: T appoint unto you a kingdom.’ 
You: that’s you and me, brethrin, that’s our title and patent, 

1 Albert, Prince Consort, died December 14th, 1861 : Albert Edward, 
Prince of Wales, married March 10th, 1863. The allusion must have 
been to these events. 


THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 275 

or whatever ’tis they caals un, to be princes royal uv the king- 
dom uv ’Eaven. Not as we oughtn’t ter respect the princes 
uv this earth : I knaws ma betters, an’ I ain’t got no pashence wi’ 
they as don’t. ’Owsomever, they are hut mighty for ‘a little 
space,’ while us shan’t never be anythin’ but lords an’ princes, 
all thru the rollin’ glorious years uv Eternity: vur iver, an 
iver, an iver! 

“An’ Who did it all? ’ E did, 9 E, the same Chris’ Jesus. 
*E as brought me up out uv a norribull pit, out uv the moiry 
clay an’ set my feet upon a rock: the rock uv salvation. An’ 
’ere I am, a glorious triumph an’ trophy of ’eavenly Grace. 
An’ so are all uv ’ee: triumphs and trophies of Grace! It 
du my ol’ eyesight good to look around this blissid rume. My 
pore ’eart is nigh to bustin’ this very minnit as I speaks, wi’ 
’Is amazin’ love fullin’ ivry pore an’ makin’ me shout vur 
joy. Praise ye the Lawr! Praise the Lawr, O My sowl! 
Praise ’Im in the ’eavens; praise ’Im in the ’eights! Praise 
’Im on earth till us all praises ’Im together in the sky! Bew- 
tivul. Rewtivul. Bewtivul.” 

He clumped to his seat: a common dirty little man, faint 
with shouting and radiant with God. 

The moment the last prayer was over, Aunt Jael rose and 
stumped swiftly for the door, our prooession following: the 
Stranger, Grandmother, Mary. This hint that she intended 
to escape without introducing “my late niece’s kinsman” to 
all and sundry was understood by sundry and by all save 
one. Miss Salvation Clinker flew to the door and essayed to 
bar our exit with ingratiating smile. 

“Good mornin’, good mornin’ to ’ee, Sister Jael.” Looked 
longingly beyond to the Stranger. 

Aunt Jael lifted her stick with threatening gesture, did not 
return the greeting and gave no sign of recognition, thrust- 
ing past her through the door. 

Miss Salvation stifled a murderous and most unsaintly look, 
twisted her enormous mouth into what she conceived to be a 
winsome smile — lips wide apart, tiger-teeth gleaming — pulled 
out her black serge skirt with both hands in the approved 
fashion of a courtesy, and ducked. The Stranger slightly 
bowed — triumph after all! — and we escaped. 

For dinner there was roast beef and sprouts followed by 


276 


MARY LEE 


rhubarb pie. Aunt Jael, republicanly, had decreed that there 
should be nothing better than usual for dinner because a 
lord was coming. Nor, as far as actual food went, was there. 
But there was a very special show of best damask and our 
modest best silver, for no other reason (that I could see) than 
that a lord was coming. Worse than this: Aunt Jael in- 
structed Mrs. Cheese to wait at table, as they do in grand 
houses. Instead of my Great-Aunt just passing the plates 
along, Mrs. Cheese bore them, laden with meat only, to our 
repective places, plumped them in front of us, and then stood 
beside us in turn with the sprouts and potatoes. Similarly 
for the pudding-course, with the cream and the sugar. Un- 
fortunately, when Mrs. Cheese waited at Lord Tawborough’s 
side with these, he was deep in converse and did not observe 
her. Mrs. Cheese gave his lordship a hearty nudge. He 
flushed, and as flimsy covering for his fault (in not observing 
her) said “No,” to the sugar and cream, thereby depriving 
himself, for the rhubarb was sour; and annoying Aunt Jael, 
whose temper was sourer. 

As soon as we were all served, Aunt Jael set upon our 
visitor. Her fists tightened round her knife and fork, her 
brows were in battle trim. 

“Wull, how did you like the service?” Staccato: open- 
ing shot. 

He scented battle; realized that he was to be landed in a 
heart-to-heart talk on the plain issues of religion: a thing he 
feared, disliked and shirked. (He was a member of the 
Church of England.) 

“Oh, very much, very much, thank you.” A trifle eva- 
sively. 

“Wull, what particular testimony helped you most? 
Whose utterance did you find of most value?” 

“Oh — er — they were all very sincere.” 

“But you found no special message? For instance, 
Brother Briggs?” 

“Brother Briggs? Let me see, which was he?” 

“The one over to the right who spoke last.” 

“Oh, that odd little man in the corner! His accent was 
a little difficult in places: I’ve been away from Devonshire so 


THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 277 

long that I’m afraid here and there I didn’t quite follow what 
he said.” 

There was no intention of sarcasm; he realized the dangers 
too well. But a certain “superiority” of manner — half- 
amused, half-irritated, and altogether natural— enraged her. 

There was a moment’s dead silence. The storm broke tem- 
pestuously. She was at the head of the table; the Stranger 
was sitting on her right. She leaned across the intervening 
corner, banged the table with her knife-encircling right fist, 
and howled into his face, with a withering contempt it is 
impossible to convey, this one phrase: “’E’s got what you 
ain’t got!” 

He dropped his knife with a clatter on his plate in sheer 
fright, starting back as far as he could as she leered into his 
face. It was a moment before he could recover sufficiently 
to reply in a rather quavery un-lord-like way, “Oh, er, what 
is it then?” 

Thunderously: (( Eturrnal Life.” 

The Stranger kept his temper, an irritating thing to do. 
“How do you know. Miss Vickary, that I have no chance 
of eternal life?” 

On such mild opposition anger feeds. She raised her voice 
to a kind of bass shriek, dropping her aitches generously. 

“ ’Ow do I know young man, ’ow do I know? If you ’ad 
eternal life, if you ’ad accepted the Lord, you’d talk about ’Is 
grace and goodness a little more bravely, and not look like 
a silly sheep when ’eavenly things are spoken of. Ugh, I 
know you shame-faced professin’ Christians, who blush when 
you ’ear the word Jesus, and never dare to roll the ’oly word 
on your tongue, I know ’ee! ’Ow do I know? — If you ’ad 
eternal life you’d not be mocking at a poor lowly Brother 
who ’as a ’undredfold better chances of it than you, with yer 
‘oh-er-ah-excellent little fellow in the corner with a difficult 
accent doncherknow.’ Ow do I know? If you ’ad the Lord 
you’d be a bit readier to talk about Him and testify to ’Is 
grace. Don’t tell me!” — she poked her head into his face 
for a final thunderous shout, — “By their fruits ye shall know 
them!” 

Grandmother looked troubled, seeking a chance to intervene. 


278 


MARY LEE 


The Stranger set his face like flint and determined to keep 
his temper, though she should scalp him with the knife she 
was brandishing in his face. He spoke very quietly. 

“Miss Vickary, one moment please, what do you know of 
my fruits? After all we have ‘met for the first time today.” 

His calm, his common-sense, were fuel to the fire. She 
thumped the table with the butt end of her knife till it shook. 

“Silence, youth, silence! Am I not seventy-two years of 
age, and ye but twenty-one? In my young days youth 
respected age, rank or no rank. I tell ’ee plainly: you’re a 
miserable sinner. Learn to mind your manners with those 
who’re older than yourself; learn not to mock at them of 
humbler station — ” 

“Miss Vickary, I — ” he protested. 

“Jael,” pleaded my Grandmother. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Lee. I don’t mind, I don’t really.” 

He looked across the table in a bee-line at my Grand- 
mother, as though Aunt Jael did not exist: the proper punish- 
ment for people who lose their temper, the most pleasant 
revenge for those who keep theirs. “No, no, don’t worry; of 
course I don’t mind. To be sure, I didn’t come here to 
discuss my own life in the next world but your little grand- 
daughter’s in this. I can never forget her mother’s kindness 
to me, I want you to let me do something for her.” 

Aunt Jael recommenced eating, tired with shouting, beaten 
after all. 

He had so swiftly but irrevocably changed the subject that 
she could not easily go back to Brother Briggs and Eternal 
Life. My opinion of the Stranger rose every moment. As 
a loyal Saint I had not liked his slight note of superiority 
when he spoke of Brother Briggs, but the moment Aunt Jael 
attacked him I was of course of his party through thick and 
thin. And I realized the every-day worldly point of view just 
enough to see that a peer of England is not accustomed to 
being railed and shouted at by an old woman he hardly 
knows, least of all when he is paying a courtesy visit to her 
in her own house, and decided that the way he kept his temper 
was wonderful, as well as the shrewdest for getting equal with 
Aunt Jael. With every reply, modelled on my own method, 
my opinion of the Stranger rose. And now that he spoke 


THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 279 

with reverence of my mother and of “doing things” for me 
my admiration knew no bounds. He was perfect. 

Grandmother was replying to him. “Thank you kindly; 
we need no help. The child needs nothing but the love and 
mercy of the Lord.” 

“Quite so, but worldly advantages — ” 

“I need no worldly advantages for her, they could do noth- 
ing for her if she had them. She is dedicated to the Lord’s 
service in foreign parts, and her whole life will be spent 
among the heathen.” 

Now or never I must strike for freedom. 

“Oh, no, no, NO” I burst out. 

There was an amazed silence. I was amazed myself. The 
words came from my heart before I knew what I was saying. 

My Grandmother’s voice quavered; there was a bitter dis- 
appointment in her face I had never seen there before. “Are 
you ill, child, are you? — ” 

“No, Grandmother, no, I will always love and serve the 
Lord. But not as a missionary among the heathen, I cannot, 
I cannot, I have never dared tell you about it before, but I 
will now. I often prayed about it, for I wanted to please you 
and please Him, and months ago now soon after my baptism 
He answered No. He told me He needed me in other ways, 
to go about in England like an ordinary person and testify to 
Him there. Grandmother dear, don’t be sorrowful; ’tis true, 
it isn’t because I want to get out of going to the heathen, ’tis 
because I know the Lord doesn’t mean me to. Oh, if you 
knew how certain I was — ” 

She had no answer to this supreme plea. “Very well, my 
dear. If my dream and your mother’s is not to be fulfilled, 
if your dedication is not to lead you to the fields of sacrifice 
I have prayed for, you can still remain lowly and far above 
worldly graces and achievements. Thank you, your lordship. 
Mary needs nothing.” 

“Mrs. Lee, I beg you. All I want to do is whatever a little 
money or influence can, to give your grand-daughter certain 
advantages it might not be easy for you — forgive me — to 
afford. I hardly know that I intend anything special. The 
child is musical, I believe. Some good music lessons, per- 
haps, with a first class master? Some tuition in French or 


280 


MARY LEE 


Italian, so that she might travel or take perhaps a really good 
governess-post? I’m sure you will forgive me for thinking 
that her mother would have wished it. It is in her name that 
I plead.” 

“And in the name of common-sense.” To get a bit of her 
own back on my Grandmother (for not having been rude to 
the Stranger) Aunt Jael entered the new battle on my side. 
“If Lord Tawborough is good enough to offer the child 
advantages we can’t afford, we’d be fools not to take them, 
and as for the child being a missionary, look at her! I don’t 
hold much with the governess idea, but she has to earn her 
living somehow, and may as well take advantage of anything 
she can. Yes, Lord Tawborough, / accept.” 

My Grandmother offered some further resistance, but at last 
it was decided that I was to have lessons in riding, music and 
French, each with the best instructors in the town. 

Riding! Music! French! Vistas spread before me. Im- 
perial futures. 

“Thank you, sir,” I said rather primly, though I would have 
clasped his hand if I had dared. 

When we had finished dinner Aunt Jael settled down as 
usual for her doze and Grandmother went upstairs to her bed- 
room to study the Word. At our visitor’s request I was ex- 
cused Lord’s Day’s school and permitted to go for a walk with 
him. 

We went out of the town along by the river to the woods. 
I was tongue-tied, waiting for him to speak. I was proud a 
little, confused a little, shy a little, yet down in my heart 
quite at ease. Above every other sentiment I was happy. 
Partly because of the new prospects he had opened for me, 
partly because of the extraordinary coincidence by which the 
Stranger and my mother’s little boy were one and the same 
person, chiefly because I liked him, and he liked me. 

After a while he began to talk, and so did I. I was too 
naively egotistical to see it then, but he made me talk, led me 
on all unconscious to most garrulous self-expression. I 
grievously broke my ancient rule of listening to other people, 
of absorbing things rather than imparting them. I told him 
all about our life at Bear Lawn, about Aunt Jael and Grand- 
mother, about Uncle Simeon also and Torribridge, with dis- 


281 


THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 

creet omissions as to Christmas and New Year’s Nights. 
Nor did I tell him, for I could have told no one, a word about 
my own inner life; it was too sacred, too ridiculous. 

What was his inner life? I fell to wondering. 

In my bedroom, on the evening of this wonderful Lord’s 
Day a long and tearful vigil. I had just got into my night- 
gown, when my Grandmother came in. She closed the door 
more quietly, yet more decisively, than usual. I knew what 
was going to happen. She came to me, took my arm, and 
looked straight into my eyes. 

“Child,” she said, “you’ve taken away the brightest hope 
of my old age. The light is gone out of my life.” 

With any one else there would have been a catch in the 
voice. In that moment I understood and admired and pitied 
her more than in all the years before. I felt the poignancy 
of her sorrow, and the measure of my own shallowness and 
shame. I was her child, more than her child, her daughter’s 
gift to be given to the service of God; my dedication to His 
Service was her supreme offering to Him Whom she loved 
with a love beyond my understanding. 

We knelt down together for the longest prayer that I re- 
member. . . . Now that I had forsworn my holy dedication and 
chosen the worldly path, God grant that I might still walk 
as in His sight. I had confessed in baptism that I had been 
raised with the Lord Jesus, and now I had preferred a worldly 
future to the unsearchable riches of Christ. Might the Lord 
in His mercy vouchsafe that my salvation might still be 
secured and that she, the old pilgrim, whose call was very 
near — and I, whose call might be nearer than I thought (ye 
know not the day nor the hour) — and one other, called al- 
ready, whom both of us loved the best — might all three be 
united in tender love and everlasting sisterhood around the 
throne of God. . . . 

I was sobbing. 

She broke short, I remember, without finishing the prayer. 
“Forgive me, my dear, ’tis I who am wrong. I admonish the 
Lord in vain. What He has willed He has willed. ’Tis a 
great sorrow. His will be done .” 


CHAPTER XXIII: WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 
THE HEART OF WOMAN 


The Stranger’s return was a landmark. 

First of all there was a vivid addition to my stock of re- 
hearsable memories. Second, there was the interest of my 
new accomplishments. 

I went for my music lessons to one Monsieur Petrowski, 
a Polish refugee, who had just fled from his native land and 
was settling down in Tawborough. I made great progress 
with my music, and if he gave me a goodly share of scales 
and studies beyond the needs of discipline he had for plea 
the direct instruction of Aunt Jael. Now that her time-hon- 
oured boast “I pay for the child’s music” was crumbling 
about her ears she solaced herself by instructing Monsieur 
Petrowski very plainly. 

“Now not too much fine showy music.” 

“Very well, Mademoiselle.” 

“No infidel trash.” 

“?” A slight bow, vaguely affirmative. 

“Always plenty of what she doesn’t like”: Aunt Jael’s 
ideal of education. “Make it a task, sir, make it a task. 
Plenty of scales, chromatics, or whatever ’tis.” 

“Very well, Mademoiselle.” 

Monsieur Petrowski obeyed reasonably well, but he forgot 
to break my will, and I suspect much of the music I learned 
of open infidelity. My talent and taste developed, and by 
eighteen years of age I played the piano better than (say) 
ninety-five embryo governesses out of a hundred. I loved 
Chopin best. 

With French I made equal progress. Here again Aunt 
Jael appointed herself the intermediary of the Stranger’s 
bounty. She selected to instruct me Miss le Mesurier. This 
lady was half French by parentage, had lived abroad the best 
part of her life, and had now come back to spend her declin- 
ing old-maidhood in her native town, and keep house for her 

282 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 283 

bachelor brother Doctor le Mesurier, — the same who had at- 
tended my mother when I was born. She became a regular 
member of our Meeting. Aunt Jael’s instructions were ex- 
plicit. “Make the work a task, a trial, a tribulation. Pander 
not to her pleasure loving tastes. No romances for her study, 
no trash, no infidel works.” These restrictions, gladly acqui- 
esced in by my teacher (who about this time followed my 
example and took up her Cross in public) cut out all fiction, 
plays and poetry; leaving us with the devotional writings of 
French Protestants, and history; the former of an epic dull- 
ness, the latter an imperishable fountain of excitement and 
romance. We read a Monsieur Michelet’s History of the 
Revolution. My appetite for history grew as it was fed. 

For my third accomplishment, my instructor was neither 
Pole nor French, but red-faced broad-breeched Mr. Samuel 
Prickett of Prickett’s “Mews” (sic). In this quarter even 
Aunt Jael jibbed at bestowing admonitions, nor were they 
needed. It was a trial and tribulation for me after her heart. 
No sooner did I approach the fragrant riding-school and be- 
hold the feats I should have to emulate than I found myself in 
a shocking condition of fear, while for the first few minutes in 
the saddle I was verily purged with terror — in the good (and 
accurate) old Bible sense of the word. I would hunch my 
back, my limbs would grow rigid with funk, and when Mr. 
Samuel Prickett for the first time tickled Rose Queen into the 
gentlest of trots I clung with frenzy to the scanty mane of 
that poor mare. The first time she galloped I screamed aloud, 
rolled incontinently out of the saddle, and clung for dear 
life to her neck. Every Tuesday and Friday I approached 
the mews with set teeth and inward prayer for courage, with 
a supreme “Help me 0 God!” as I put my foot into the stirrup; 
after a year or two of prayer and perseverance I was a fair 
if never a fearless horsewoman. (Even at the beginning there 
was this set-off to fear: pride. I knew that my riding-habit 
became me; if a few of the bolder spirits on the Lawn mocked 
and jeered, I inwardly mocked and jeered back because I 
knew that really they were impressed: their sneers were but a 
natural tribute to their jealousy of me and respect for them- 
selves. More than the costume, the fact of riding gave me a 
delicious sense of importance. It may be argued that the con- 


284 


MARY LEE 


nection between horsemanship and aristocracy is merely the 
result of distant historical origins, far-away reflection of a 
world where the knight alone went horseback and the common 
man trudged humbly through the centuries. All I am sure of 
is this: that in the country lanes I felt myself a very fine young 
lady, i. e. at such moments as I did not feel a shocking coward. 
In the middle of pleasant reviews as to the lordliness of riding 
a horse, I would be seized with a pained and concentrated in- 
terest in my reins, a perspiring anxiety not to lose the stirrups, 
a most unaristocratic readiness to snatch the mane. (Pride 
qualified by fear: man’s natural state.) 

The aim of all these proceedings was to obtain, by the 
Stranger’s help, a governess’ post in a good family. Meagre 
and melancholy ambition this would seem to worldly spirits 
nowadays. To me the prospect was fame, freedom, adven- 
ture, la Vie! 

Lord Tawborough I rarely saw. Grandmother stood out 
against Aunt Jael in refusing to let me stay at Woolthy Hall. 
I wrote him a report of progress every three months, a soul- 
less jellyfish document, heavily censored by both Grand- 
mother and Great-Aunt. The former always said I was not 
grateful enough, the latter that I was not humble enough. 
The final product was an unpleasing mixture of grovelling 
gratitude, hateful humility, and perfect grammar. My Grand- 
mother persisted in her old plan of keeping me meek and 
lowly by never speaking well of me to my face, nor allowing 
any word of praise to escape her lips, yet I know she was 
proud of such progress as I made alike in these special pur- 
suits and at the Misses Primps’. I read often in her eyes 
how deeply she felt it that I had not chosen the Better Way, 
and I realized how unselfish was her interest in my progress. 

I began to appreciate my Grandmother’s unselfishness at 
its true worth. In it lay all her charm, her goodness, her dif- 
ference from other people. It was through her that I first 
came to see that unselfishness is the one virtue, as it was 
Aunt Jael who helped to teach me that selfishness is the one 
vice. I would think out every evil act I could imagine and 
find that at bottom it was Self. I would think out every 
good deed and discover that its essence was always unselfish- 
ness. In one of those flashes in which I saw and felt things 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 285 

I had before only vaguely believed, I grasped the meaning 
of the Cross. I saw suddenly how utterly selfish I was my- 
self, full of hopes for myself, weaving futures for myself; 
always self, self, self; and a voice inside me asked: “Now 
what hopes has Grandmother for herself ?” and though I was 
alone I coloured at the sudden discovery of self -accused 
shame. “She has nothing; the one great hope left to her was 
you, and you have disappointed her.” I began to understand 
the sorrow and loneliness of an old woman’s lot, the vacancy, 
the lack of hope and lookings-forward. No doubt when 
Grandmother had been a little girl she too had said to her- 
self: “Wait, Hannah, wait till you’re grown up; then things 
will be happier. Wait for love, marriage; then you will 
be happy.” Married love faded, husband died. “There are 
your children.” But the children went away; Christian into 
a consumptive’s grave, Martha unhappily wed, Rachel slowly 
tortured to death. Hope still ahead: “You will find comfort 
in your children’s children.” What comfort did they hold 
for her: Albert! — and Mary who had betrayed the last great 
hope. What had my Grandmother to live for? The daily 
round of Aunt Jael’s nagging: old age with sorrow behind 
and only Heaven ahead. 

Aunt Jael, I reflected, had been denied even the pleasures 
of sorrow, the regret for good things gone away; neither 
love, nor husband, nor children. Should I have been better 
in her case? Perhaps there were excuses for Aunt Jael. 

I had to say this to myself very hard and very often in 
these days. As my Great-Aunt grew older she grew noisier, 
more evil-tempered, more shrewish; her evil and domineering 
nature was having a final bout before the ebb tide of a 
maudlin dotage. As I remember her during my sixteenth 
and seventeenth years she well nigh baffles description. A 
hooked-nose wicked old witch, scolding, snarling, imprecat- 
ing, hurling texts and threats about her. She would sit back 
in her old armchair and nag and shout from morn till eve, 
cursing my Grandmother for an idle selfish ingrate if not 
always at her beck and call to button or unbutton her boots, 
to dress or undress her, to help her up- or downstairs. 
“Why shouldn’t she do a bit for me, that’s what I want to 
know? Hannah is younger, Hannah is sprightlier, not an 


286 


MARY LEE 


old woman like me!”: you would have thought the eighteen 
months were eighteen centuries. Mrs. Cheese stood up to 
the old bully, and giving what she got, got rather less. I 
came in for the most consistent cursing, and the worst out* 
breaks. She would stand up with eyes blazing and howl at 
me at the top of her voice (that bass shout impossible to 
convey in print which I called her “yell-growl”) : “Ugh, 
yer father’s child, every inch of ’ee; you feature him and yer 
character’s as evil. Vicious little slut, pert wench, vile little 
sinner, adulterer’s daughter, spawn of Beelzebub ! ” She would 
lash out as of old with her stick; more than once after I had 
passed sixteen she flogged me till I was black with bruises. 

By training and by character — and following my Grand- 
mother’s example and for her sake — I could take it all with 
apparent meekness. But some outlet for the Beast in me 
was provided by her increasing deafness. Given Grand- 
mother’s absence from the room and a suitable modulation of 
mouth and voice, I could give her all that she gave in the 
way of abuse. As she sat back exhausted, with her eyes 
half closed in some passing lull, I would look up from my 
sewing, and with lips barely moving give her my views. “Oh, 
you wicked old woman; you cruel selfish beastly hag; you 
shrew; you enemy of all righteousness! How I loathe you, 
hate you, spit at you!” 

Often Conscience smote me. “Where is your ‘do unto 
others’?” So I would make allowances; she had been lonely, 
always unloved. She was old, unhappy. I could not help 
feeling that these were not excuses so much as explanations: 
she was just what an old maid who had domineered and been 
deferred to all her life would naturally be. She was herself 
carried to her logical conclusion. 

Her habits changed. She only went to the morning Meet- 
ing, and that not always. On weekdays she got up late. 

Our mornings would have appeared to outsiders a roaring 
and improbable farce. 

At eight o’clock Grandmother and I would sit down to the 
breakfast table. No Aunt Jael. 

“Is Miss Vickary coming down this morning, do you know, 
Mrs. Cheese?” 

The latter grunted. 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 287 

“Please go and see, will you, so that we can have her break- 
fast right for her.” 

Mrs. Cheese went upstairs, leaving the dining-room door 
open behind her. Just before we heard her knocking at 
Aunt Jael’s door, we heard a more sinister noise in the bed- 
room above, a spring and a thud: Aunt Jael bounding out 
of bed to lock the door against her, usually managing to turn 
the key in the lock just as Mrs. Cheese began knocking. 

“Lem’me in! Zich games wi’ an ole body.” She knocked 
and thumped. 

No success. The silence of death. 

“Go wi’out yer breakfast then!” A final thump or kick, 
and she waddled downstairs to the dining-room. 

“No good, Mrs. Lee. ’Er’s up to ’er tantrums, ’er’s banged 
the door and turned the key.” 

Immediately the floor-thumping overhead began again. 
Aunt Jael was leaning out of bed and prodding the floor with 
her stick. Blows rained thunderously, monotonously; it was 
no good pretending they were not there, as I sometimes could 
for a few moments, relying on Grandmother’s deafness. Then 
the noise would cease. We heard the bound and spring. 
She was out of bed, had opened the door and was howling 
downstairs over the banisters, “Hannah! Cheese! Child! 
Food, Food! I’m a-starvin’, I’m a-starvin’!” 

“Will you try once again, Mrs. Cheese, please?” said my 
Grandmother. “Or I will,” she would add, seeing reluctance. 

This always decided the old lady. To save Grandmother 
she puffed her way once more upstairs. Aunt Jael went on 
screaming from the landing, “Food, food!” till Mrs. Cheese 
was nearly up the stairs. Then she scuttled into her bedroom, 
and swiftly locked the door again. 

“Starve away, ye old biddy, starve till ye die for all I care, 
an’ I ’ope ’tis middlin’ quick.” She descended, calling in at 
the dining-room door as she paused, “I’ve done wi’ the ’ole 
biddy fer iver.” 

In a few moments it all began again. Grandmother would 
have a journey, and then I. By the time our peaceful break- 
fast was over Aunt Jael had usually tired of her fun and was 
prepared to give in: another lengthy process. The first great 


288 


MARY LEE 


step was when she got as far as leaving the door open. 
Usually if Grandmother or Mrs. Cheese took in her breakfast- 
tray she refused to have it near her and declared that the 
Child alone should bring her breakfast to her, the reason 
being that it was time for school and that I, therefore, was 
the most inconvenient person she could select. So they left 
the tray on the brass-nailed box outside her door, and I went 
in with it. Meanwhile she would close her eyes and moan: 
‘Tm a-sinkin’, I’m a-sinkin’ for the want of food! A poor 
lonely woman left to starve! A-sinkin’, a-sinkin’, a-sinkin’ — ” 
her voice sank to a tragic whisper. Next, of course, the egg 
was too soft or too hard boiled, according as we had been pes- 
simists or optimists in gauging the duration of my lady’s mood 
that morning. 

Dressing her was the next trial. I escaped it except in 
the holidays. Grandmother had to see to every button and 
lace and hook, and be railed at the whole time. And so 
on, throughout the day, morning, afternoon, evening, week in, 
week out, till life was a misery. My nerves were on edge, 
and if I kept my temper it was at the expense of my soul, 
which was filled with a devouring hate. There was one 
person, however, whose temper would not and did not hold 
out, and that was Mrs. Cheese. On that last day when my 
Great-Aunt sat up in bed and threw the whole breakfast-tray 
at her — a notable feat — she picked up the metal tea-pot, the 
only whole article in the wreckage, poured hot tea on the ag- 
gressor’s face, and within a few hours had left the house. 
6 T’ve warmed the ole biddy’s nose, and this time I goes for 
iver.” 

Then, somewhere in the summer of 1864, came Maud. She 
brought no references, this being her first place, nor in our 
dire need could we insist on the usual requirements as to 
grace and salvation. She was not more than seventeen or 
eighteen, hardly a year or so older than I was; though with 
her hair up and her smart womanly attractive appearance 
she looked several years my senior. I had gathered from 
the Bible and from the talk at school that our sex was con- 
sidered the more attractive, the better-looking, the more 
sought-after for its pleasingness. Neither the many female 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 


289 


Saints of my acquaintance nor any member of our humble 
gallery of housemaids had helped me to understand. Maud 
was an explanation of much. Looking at her head of fine 
chestnut hair, gay pretty mouth and sparkling eyes, I began to 
apprehend why so many worthy folk — King David, King Sol- 
omon, Adam our first forefather — had gone astray. Her 
capacity for hard work equalled her good looks; her patience, 
good temper and self-sacrifice with Aunt Jael excelled them 
both. Here was the first servant we had ever taken without 
certificate of godliness; and she was the best. 

From the beginning she devoted herself to Aunt Jael, who 
of course shouted at her, and told her she was a bold minc- 
ing hussy. She smiled. She just went on cooking, dusting, 
laying the tea table, hooking the blouse, or whatever it might 
be, always with the same patient smile. After a while her 
absolute imperviousness to abuse and her excellence as a 
lady’s maid began to mollify my Great-Aunt, who came to 
treat her quite passably to her face, and sing loud her praises 
as soon as she left the room. 

“There’s a good girl, if you like, something like a girl. 
Do something for her, Hannah! Give her five pounds and 
a new suit of clothes.” 

This last remark became a mania, and half a dozen times 
a day as the door closed upon Maud, Aunt Jael would shout 
at my Grandmother, “Five pounds, I say, five pounds, and a 
new suit of clothes!” Neither did she produce, however. 

To my surprise Grandmother did not care very much for 
our new servant. 

“Isn’t she good, Grandmother?” I asked one day. 

She nodded her head and did not reply. 

“You don’t like her, Grandmother?” 

No reply. 

“Why now, because she’s not a Christian?” 

“No-o, my dear, I can’t tell ’ee why. I don’t like her: why, 
I don’t even know myself; hut there ’tis.” 

“But she’s so good with aunt, and so patient.” 

“Yes—” 

“Well, why then?” 

“There ’tis, and that’s all there is about it.” 

I was puzzled, as Grandmother was always so generous. 


290 


MARY LEE 


There must be some mystery about Maud. Her beauty, a 
strange and new and troubling thing in my imagination. 
Her inhuman patience, equalling even my Grandmother’s. 
And her carpet-slippers. She moved absolutely without 
sound. 

Soon after her arrival there was a new development. Aunt 
Jael’s indigestion and sleeplessness and ill temper had been 
getting steadily worse till at last Grandmother had called in 
Doctor le Mesurier. He prescribed a stimulant: my Great- 
Aunt was to take a small dose of brandy two or three times 
every twenty-four hours. Say a small dose at one of her 
nocturnal repasts and a sip in a wine-glass after dinner. It 
became one of my duties to go up to her bedroom after 
dinner, obtain the bottle from the secret cupboard, and pour 
out the measure. I brought it down and laid it on the corner 
of the table near her fireside perch. 

After a few days, I noticed that more of the brandy seemed 
to disappear each day than two or even three doses in the 
night could explain. It was a tall bottle of Cognac, the dose 
was less than an inch in a wine glass taken not more than 
twice each day, and yet in under a week the bottle was empty. 
The fierce teetotalism of the later-nineteenth-century Ameri- 
canized Protestantism was unknown among the Brethren, 
who followed more faithfully the old Puritan tradition and 
deemed a bottle of liquor a good thing if used and not abused. 
But though drink had never loomed large in my imagination, I 
associated it vaguely with the snares of this world. Be- 
tween Maud the worldly one with her unfamiliar female 
beauty (snare of snares) and the vanishing brandy the con- 
nection was so obvious that I need not have felt so pleased 
with myself as I did when I first divined it. It was clear as 
noonday. Maud was the thief. She had access to the cup- 
board at all hours, she was led into temptation, and had 
fallen. When I stared at her she would turn a little pale. 

Aunt Jael was not yet aware of the theft. Clearly she was 
in her dotage, as the Cognac cost six shillings a bottle. Was 
it my duty, my duty before the Lord, to speak out? I in- 
clined to think so. Theft was theft, and theft was sin, 
and sin should always be exposed for righteousness’ sake 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 291 

and the sinner’s too. On the other hand, a voice inside me 
told me that it would be mean and cowardly to sneak on 
Maud. The feeling of pleasure that Aunt Jael was being 
thieved from also urged silence. If both these notions 
weighed against my exposing Maud, yet one seemed in a 
sense to balance the other in my conscience, for I tried to 
justify my delight in seeing Aunt Jael robbed by pretend- 
ing to myself that the generous impulse of shielding Maud 
was my real reason for keeping silence. As one bottle and 
then another disappeared with unmistakable speed, and the 
inroads on Aunt Jael’s purse became more extensive and 
gratifying, my piece of self-deception began to wear hollow. 
Conscience pricked: “You know the real reason you are not 
telling. You know it is to spite Aunt Jael and not to shield 
Maud. You know.” 

One night I prayed for guidance. The answer was clear. 
My evil delight in Aunt Jael being robbed was a sin which I 
could only atone for by repentance and by stopping the 
robbery, while to avoid having Maud exposed and dismissed 
(this had been in one way an argument for and not against 
telling, because the inevitable dismissal of so helpful a girl 
would inconvenience Aunt Jael; though here again it cut both 
ways, as Grandmother and I would be inconvenienced and 
harried still more when she was gone) it was my duty to 
speak to her privately. Thus she would be spared, Aunt 
Jael protected, my sin atoned for, and justice done. I obeyed 
instantly, got out of bed, lit my candle and crept up to Maud’s 
bedroom. I knocked timidly. There was a faint scuffling 
inside: she was getting out of bed. She opened the door a 
few inches and her face appeared. It was sheet white. She 
was trembling violently. 

“I am sorry, Maud, to wake you up, but I had to.” I spoke 
hurriedly, a bit shamefacedly. “If you won’t do it again, I’ll 
not tell.” 

“Miss — ” she gasped. 

“Don’t worry,” I said frightened by her frightened appear- 
ance, “I’ll promise never to say a word.” 

“Thank you, Miss Mary, I’m sure,” she said shakily, “but 
oh, oh, you did give me a start!” 


292 


MARY LEE 


As she spoke she came right out of the room in her night- 
gown, shut the door behind her, and stood up against me on 
the half-landing, still trembling. 

“Why did you shut the door like that?” I asked. Her ex- 
treme fear puzzled me. 

She hesitated for a second. “Oh, I must see you back to 
bed or you’ll be getting your death of cold.” 

“Good night, miss,” she said. Before she blew out the 
candle I noticed that her face was as white as ever. 

Somehow she had seemed too frightened. 

After all, was stealing brandy so terrible? Was dismissal 
from Aunt Jael’s service so hideous a blow? Then there was 
the way she had closed the door behind her. 

I heard her creep her way upstairs. My heart stood still 
as I heard another door open quite near me; Grandmother’s by 
the sound of it. No doubt she had been awakened and had 
heard our going to and fro on the stairs. I sat up in bed so 
as to hear better. I fancied she was standing at her door as 
though listening. Then a voice spoke, sounding strangely in 
the silence. It was my Grandmother’s. 

“Child, what are you doing? Is that you, child? What 
are you doing?” 

I jumped out of bed and opened my door. “What is it, 
Grandmother? I’m here, what is it?” 

An odd expression came into her eyes. 

“Then who was it going downstairs just now? Somebody 
crouched when I called out, then seemed to wriggle their way 
further down; somebody in white, like your nightgown. I 
thought you were sleepwalking.” 

Some one in white wriggling downstairs! Was not Grand- 
mother herself sleepwalking? It could not be Maud, for I 
had heard her close her door. 

“Maud!” called my Grandmother. 

“Yes’m,” replied a voice with amazing quickness. She had 
been listening. But she spoke from upstairs. “Yes’m, did 
you call me, m’m?” 

At this moment the front door of the house was unmistak- 
ably opened and then closed again. Some one had gone out. 

My Grandmother, an odd little figure in her nightcap and 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 293 

gown, looked very grave. “Get to bed, Maud,” she called, 
“and you too, child.” 

After pondering a certain terrible suspicion in my mind for 
a few minutes, I fell asleep. 

Next morning I shirked seeing Maud. I felt shamefaced 
for what I had said to her in the night and far more for the 
thing I had hardly dared to think. I got downstairs later than 
usual. The dining-room was dark, the blinds had not been 
drawn. I went into the kitchen; there were no signs of life, 
the fire had not been lit. I rushed upstairs to her bedroom 
and burst in without knocking; she was not there, the drawers 
of the bedroom chest were pulled out and emptied, her box 
had gone. She had run away. 

Months later, I saw a well-dressed young woman in the 
street. The face was familiar. She was wheeling a baby’s 
perambulator. She looked the other way. 

Nothing was said to Aunt Jael, who theorized on Maud’s mys- 
terious departure, and declared that my Grandmother’s cruel 
treatment had forced her to flee for her life. She cursed at 
Maud for an ingrate, though still fitfully maintaining that she 
Was well worth five pounds, not to mention a new suit of clothes. 

Maud’s departure marked the beginning of a still more mis- 
erable period at Bear Lawn. We were unable for some time 
to get another servant, and though Sister Briggs came in twice 
a week to help, there was more than enough work for Grand- 
mother and me, especially as it was term-time. I had to get 
up at half past five, light the kitchen fire, sweep the rooms, 
and help Grandmother with the breakfast. I had to cook, 
sew, dust, do my homework, and dance continual attendance 
on Aunt Jael. I was wretched, but too hard driven to mope 
overmuch. Grandmother and I worked early and late, earn- 
ing nothing but abuse from Aunt Jael, who now ceased to do 
any work whatever, even to help with the cooking or to carve 
at table. Her temper became more ungovernable, her abuse 
more outrageous. All her life she had had a certain dignity 
— harsh, unlovely, but still dignity — an august presence, a 
majesty in evil. There was little trace of majesty or dignity 
in the nagging old shrew she was becoming now. If you 
get into a pet because the sprouts are undercooked, hurl 


294 


MARY LEE 


the vegetable-dish on the floor, tread the sprouts into the 
carpet, cry “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” (“Brussels to Brus- 
sels” would have been apter), wave the spoon with rage, and 
gurgle like a stuck pig, you may be many many things, but 
dignified, no. This was an almost daily experience. 

In the middle of this period came her eightieth birthday. 
There was no jubilee. 

My chief Cross was my resolve of absolute evenness of 
temper. Evenness rather than serenity was the word: I could 
never take my Grandmother’s quiet delight in sitting down 
under insult and injustice, as though they were flattering 
temptations sent me by the Lord, tokens of heavenly priv- 
ilege. I could always turn the other cheek, but never as 
though I enjoyed it. Once when I had waited on Aunt Jael 
hand and foot all day; taking up her breakfast (after three 
or four attempts and plenty of frolic with the door), dress- 
ing her (“no one else would do”), making her bed and tidy- 
ing her room (while she sat in a chair carping), cooking her 
a special dinner and arranging it on a little table by the 
armchair (she felt too ill to sit up to table), doing her 
sewing (“Clumsy little slut with the needle!”), and reading to 
her aloud from the Word (her eyes were too tired to read her- 
self) ; when after tea I had begun and finished the last chap- 
ter of Proverbs — “Many daughters have done virtuously but 
Thou excellest them all” — and she had no further behest; I 
thought that at last I was free for a few moments. I sat 
down at the piano and began playing my new piece: Polish 
Dance in A Minor. I had not played more than a few bars 
when I heard her get up from her chair. Without warning I 
received a violent box on the ears, with “That for idling away 
without my permission on this ungodly trash” as she snatched 
the music and crumpled it up into a paper ball. The blow 
was dealt with such force that I fell off the stool on to the 
floor, where she began belabouring me with her stick. 

Struggling to my feet, I began in my intensest manner, 
bitterer than any rage: “Oh may the Lord punish you, may 
He visit you with pain and illness and agony in this world — ” 
I do not know how far I had got but the door opened and 
my Grandmother came in. 

“My dear, you are beside yourself.” 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 


295 


“Grandmother, hear me. I have toiled for her all day 
long, and now when I’ve sat down for a minute to practise 
she came behind me unawares and gave me a blow that 
knocked me on to the floor and then began flogging me with 
her stick.” 

“Sister — ” began my Grandmother. 

“None of your ‘sister,’ if you please!” She went up to 
Grandmother, who was near the bookcase, and pushed her 
roughly against it. “No interfering, d’yer see? When the 
child does what I don’t like, I do what I like to her. See?” 
She clutched Grandmother by the shoulders, and began bang- 
ing her viciously against the bookcase. 

“You brute!” I cried, and with a strength I should not 
have found in self-defence tore her away from Grandmother. 
Loosing hold, she turned on me; I ran for safety to the other 
side of my guardian- angel table. She hesitated for a mo- 
ment, remembering perhaps her ancient dignity, and then 
stalked out of the room. Which was after all the most 
dignified thing to do. 

The fact was, her health and self-control were failing 
together; but if more of a shrew, she was less shrewd than of 
old. She never noticed, for instance, how the brandy was 
disappearing. The odd thing about this brandy was that 
after Maud’s departure it had been disappearing more 
quickly and mysteriously than ever. A new suspicion en- 
tered my mind. Sister Briggs never went upstairs. It 
could not be Grandmother. It was not magic. It was not 
me. . . . 

One day just before dinner, Aunt Jael had not yet appeared 
in the dining room. This was surprising; on her latest and 
worst days she usually descended by eleven o’clock. 

“I’ve heard her moving about,” said Grandmother. “Din- 
ner is ready, give her a call.” 

Before I had time to obey, however, I heard her bedroom 
door open. We sat down to table. The dining-room door 
was open, and I fancied there was something odd and shuffling 
in the way she was coming downstairs. Then I was startled 
by a series of thuds; it sounded as though she had lost her 
footing, and fallen down the last two or three stairs. We 
ran out, for Grandmother had heard too. 


296 


MARY LEE 


“Are you hurt, Jael?” She was lying full length on the 
bottom stair, her face was dark and flushed, her eyes odd 
and bleary. She appeared stunned, though it surprised me 
that to fall two or three stairs should have had so serious an 
effect. 

She did not answer Grandmother, but began slavering and 
hiccoughing. 

“Give her five poundsh an’ a new shuit of clothes.” The 
sentence was broken by hiccoughs. My nostrils caught the 
sudden reek of spirits. 

Aunt Jael was drunk. 

I looked at Grandmother and Grandmother looked at me. 
She spoke in a low voice, and there were tears in her eyes. 
“ ’Tis hard, my dear. Your aunt has lived a godly sober life 
these eighty years — and now, look! We must take it as His 
will.” 

Resolves are weak, and pity is stronger than hate. I had 
been looking forward all my life and during the past few weeks 
more venomously than ever to the day when I should see my 
hated Aunt the victim of some supreme humiliation. The day 
was here. There she lay: drunken, shameful, loathsome. 
Surely this was humiliation enough. I should have exulted in 
her shame; I was indeed wicked enough to have done so, but 
that some one different in me, the Other Me (at such moments 
of extreme alternative between good and evil I always felt the 
Second Presence), had only pity and sorrow. My cheeks 
burned as I thought of how I had been looking forward to a 
triumph like this. I saw in a flash the shamefulness of spite, 
the folly of all revenge. 

We tried to lift her up. She was too heavy, especially as 
she resisted, at first dully and then with vigour. I stepped 
over her body on to the second stair. When I knelt down and 
began pulling at her shoulder she struck me with her fist and set 
up a shriek of “Murder!” The sudden noise deterred us. 
With tipsy cunning she noticed this, and followed up her 
success; shrieking “Murder!” again and again like a thing 
demented. 

In the middle of pandemonium the front door knocker 
sounded. Grandmother was on the other side of Aunt Jael, and 
went to see who it might be. It was the curate from the Parish 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 297 

Church, who had recently come to live next door, No. 6 The 
Lawn. We had never spoken to him and hardly knew his 
name. 

“Er — umph — Madam, I trust you will excuse me; but we 
— er — fancied there was some trouble in your house. We 
heard something, Mrs. White and I, and I wondered if I 
could — er — perhaps help in any way.” 

“Yes, sir, you could,” said my Grandmother. “Come in. 
My sister has had a seizure. She’s not herself at all. My 
grandchild and I haven’t the strength between us to lift her 
upstairs to bed. You’ll kindly help us? Come along the 
hall to the foot of the stairs. This way, will you?” 

I prayed inwardly that he would not discover the truth, 
but as he bent down to take Aunt Jael’s shoulder I noticed 
the slightest twitch of his nostrils followed immediately by 
an involuntary I-thought-as-much expression which he instantly 
concealed. 

It was a memorable journey upstairs. How she writhed 
and punched and struck and spat and shrieked. Somehow we 
got her there and somehow we laid her on the bed. 

We went downstairs to show the Reverend Mr. White out. 
“I shall be discretion itself,” he volunteered meaningly. I 
saw a shade of annoyance on Grandmother ’9 face; she had 
not noticed that he had noticed. 

When we returned upstairs after the Reverend Mr. White 
had gone we found her bedroom door locked. For no entreaty 
would she let us in. Later on my Grandmother pleaded 
earnestly to let her take her in some food. There was no reply. 
All through the night her door remained locked; I tried it 
half a dozen times. Next morning we could do no better. 
With the infinite resources of her cupboard she had of course 
enough to eat; but — this was our anxiety — she had far too 
much to drink also. There was a bottle of sherry, but as 
far as I remembered not more than an inch or two of 
brandy in the current bottle. Still our fears were of the 
darkest. 

By Tuesday dinner-time our anxiety had reached a climax. 
In a few minutes the Clinkers would arrive. Grandmother 
had half a mind to send me round to tell them not to come; 
^decided that this would be likelier to excite suspicion than 


298 


MARY LEE 

letting them come in the ordinary way, and telling them that 
Jael was not well enough to appear. 

At half-past one sounded the immemorial rat-tat-tat. 
Salvation was first. She rushed in and flung her arms round 
my Grandmother’s neck. 

“Oh, my pore ’Annah, what a trial! Pore dear Jael. 
Who’d ’a’ thought it?” Her teeth shone. She wheezed un- 
welcome sympathy. 

“Salvation,” asked my Grandmother sternly, “who told 
you?” 

“Aw my dear, ’tis the talk uv th’ town. Brother Obadiah 
Tizzard came to see Glory this mornin’ as ’e sometimes 
does uv a mornin’ to discourse on ’oly things, an’ ’e told us 
jis what ’is servant, ole Jenny Fippe, ’ad to’d ’im. ’Er ’ad 
it from ’er young niece who’s friendly like with a young man 
who sings in the choir, or whatever ’tis they caals it, at the 
parish church, ’im havin’ been to’d by the passon ’imself, who 
lives next door to you, who say ’e were called in ’ere by most 
’ orrible shrieks, so Brother Obadiah says Jenny says, and ’e 
see’d pore dear Jael in a turrible way, wavin’ a bottle o’ 
brandy in one ’and an’ poundin’ ’is face till ’twere all a pulp 
of blood with the other. ‘You’ve got a wrong story this time. 
Brother Obadiah Tizzard,’ I says, ‘Jael Vickary is my oldest 
friend and the soberest woman in North Devon. ’Tis all a 
passel o’ lies, Brother Obadiah, you mark my words,’ says I, 
didn’t I, Glory, says I? Aw my pore dear Jael, she’s in bed 
maybe. Take me to ’er, ’Annah.” 

“No,” said my Grandmother very firmly. “What you 
heard is very much more than the truth, and you’ll please me 
to keep a quiet tongue in your head about it a bit better than 
the parson did. But she’s not well, and you’re not to see her.” 

It was a constrained gathering that afternoon; our godly 
discussion halted lamely at times. We were all relieved when 
Grandmother went into the kitchen rather earlier than usual to 
prepare tea. While she was out of the room, I heard Aunt 
Jael’s door open: Grandmother had left the dining-room door 
open. I did not know for a moment what to do, whether to 
rush upstairs to prevent Aunt Jael descending, or fly into the 
kitchen to warn Grandmother, when it might be too late. I 
did nothing. The three of us sat in breathless silence a# 


WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD 299 

she stumped downstairs, and watched with open mouths and 
breathless excitement till a horrible bird-like apparition in 
night-cap and gown came in. Her eyes were still bloodshot, 
but she was different from yesterday; merry-maudlin, not vi- 
cious drunk. Fortunately, as I had judged, there had 
been very little more brandy, and she had had recourse to 
wine. She pranced up to her visitors, chuckling idioti- 
cally. 

“Good day to ’ee Salvation, Good day to ’ee Glory!” She 
chucked them under the chin, dug them slyly in the ribs, 
tweaked their solemn ears. She had a look of beatific idiocy 
on her red beaky old face, and a tipsy laugh broken by 
stalwart hiccoughs. 

“You’m thinkin’ — hie — I’m tipsy. Nothin’ — hie — of the 
kin’ — ’Tis a very goo’ — hie — imitashun, a very goo’ — hie — 
imitashun.” 

She seized a couple of forks from the table, which I had 
just finished laying for tea, took one in each fist and began to 
perform a series of dumb-bell exercises, alternating one 
movement up with both arms, one forward, and one to the 
sides, giggling and chuckling inanely the while. She looked 
like a performing parrot dressed in white. For a few 
moments Glory, Salvation and I had been undecided whether 
to take the performance as tragedy or farce. Suddenly we 
all began laughing together, and were soon giggling as uncon- 
trollably as Aunt Jael herself. 

She tired of the dumb-bell exercises, threw down the forks 
and cried out “Come on now, letsh have a game.” Before 
we knew where we were the four of us were whirling round 
and round in the space between the table and the fireplace, 
singing “Ring a ring of roses,” like the four lunatics and 
godly Plymouth Sisters that we were. Three of us were eighty 
years old and the fourth not yet eighteen. At the high tide 
of the bacchanal we became suddenly and stupidly aware that 
Grandmother was at the door; sane, inexorable, watching us. 
We parted hands lamely. Aunt Jael, dizzy and without sup- 
port, tottered back against the firegrate and would have fallen 
headlong had I not rushed forward just in time to save her. 

“She’s a good li’l girl, Hannah, after all; she’s a good lil 
girl. Give her something, give her — ” 


300 


MARY LEE 


“Give her what then?” said my Grandmother, wishing to 
humour her. 

“Five poundsh, my dear, and a new shuit of clothes!” 

The Aunt Jael that rose months later from her sick bed was 
not the demented wretch of that tipsy summer; rather the old 
one I knew, but with memory and will and voice and author- 
ity all weaker. The great domineerer had passed into her 
dotage; was but the valiant wreck of an autocrat. 


CHAPTER XXIV: PROSPECTS 


I left the Misses Primps’ at the end of the summer term of 
1865; I was in my eighteenth year. 

My Grandmother told me that Lord Tawborough was looking 
around for “a good opening” for me. The interval of wait- 
ing was to be spent perfecting my French and music, and I 
was to begin Italian with Miss le Mesurier. Uncertainty sent 
my fancies and ambitions in disorderly riot through the whole 
gamut of possibilities and impossibilities; transported me to 
every county in turn, from Cornwall to Caithness, to every 
manner of dwelling, from palaces to pagodas. Sometimes I 
saw myself with a tyrant for taskmistress — Aunt Jael to the 
nth — sometimes employed by Fairy Godmother or Lady 
Bountiful. 

Somewhere about New Year of 1866, Lord Tawborough 
wrote. He had obtained, he thought, an excellent opening for 
me, and would visit us at once to communicate it. This news 
brought me to a high pitch of excitement, which culminated 
on the day he came. 

I was to go to France! — as companion rather than govern- 
ess to a French girl a year or two younger than myself; to 
perfect her English, and talk English also with an elder sister 
who was about my own age. The two girls lived with their 
widowed mother in a big chateau in Normandy, though part 
of the year was spent in the family house in Paris. Lord 
Tawborough and his father before him had had friendly re- 
lations with the family, which was old, illustrious and wealthy. 
I should meet the best type of French people, and have the 
opportunity of perfecting my own French. I should be kept, 
of course, and receive a salary of four hundred francs (sixteen 
pounds) a year. 

As he unfolded this gorgeous prospect I was ravished with 
delight. Foreign Lands! Normandy! Chateaux! Paris! 
But Grandmother — why was she looking doubtful, unmoved? 

“Papists?” she asked him, keenly. 

301 


302 


MARY LEE 


“They are Roman Catholics.” This as though somehow a 
palliative. 

My heart stopped. I scented battle. Lord Tawborough 
counter-attacked before the forces of objection could muster. 

“Yes, Mrs. Lee: Papists, of course, like nearly all French 
people. But what an opportunity for Mary! If she could 
help them to a better way, it would be achieving more than to 
convert a hundred heathen!” 

His tongue was in his cheek. Conscience called: Denounce 
his lies! Ambition urged furiously: Keep silence! My 
heart was throbbing, as the battle of selves raged within. I 
saw that Grandmother took his false words in good faith: 
Ambition was the winning-side and stifled Conscience utterly. 

“True,” said my Grandmother, and accepted with sober grat- 
itude. Aunt Jael grunted warmer approval. I thanked him 
with tears of pleasure. 

Details were arranged. I was to go in April, a few weeks 
after my eighteenth birthday. There was never any direct 
correspondence; Lord Tawborough made all arrangements. 
Towards my expenses he gave five pounds, which Grandmother 
most furiously spent in “a new shuit of clothes.” In all I 
had three new dresses, the finest I had ever possessed; I had 
no suspicion of how dowdy they might look in my new sur- 
roundings. Lord Tawborough, however, to whom Aunt Jael 
proudly displayed them, must have had the gravest suspicions, 
for in spite of resistance he sent me to the best dressmaker in 
the town for a white silk “evening” dress, and to the ladies’ 
tailor in Boutport Street for a smart new riding-habit. For 
parting-present Aunt Jael gave me a set of bone-backed hair- 
brushes; Glory and Salvation a pair of kid gloves and a silk 
scarf ; Pentecost Dodderidge a New Testament with an original 
hymn inscribed in the title page; Mrs. Cheese a plain gold 
brooch and green parasol, the Meeting a magnificent French 
Bible in limp red morocco, which was presented to me pub- 
licly at my last Breaking of Bread; Brother Browning a 
Scotch travelling rug; my Grandmother a photograph of my 
mother I had often begged for and cried over and kissed. 

Let me put down what I was like at this moment of leaving 
the old life. 


PROSPECTS 303 

I was of average height, but slight build: a frail incon- 
spicuous figure, with small limbs, neatly made perhaps, if 
too thin for shapeliness. I looked so young for my age that 
when only a day or two before my departure I first put my 
hair up, there was a ridiculous contrast between the adult 
austere bun — Victorian fashion, at the back, lumpy, far-pro- 
truding — and the fifteen-year-old face. Or so I thought, 
laughing into the mirror. My appearance was one of the 
few things I was not vain of — not yet — or I should have wept 
rather than laughed: ugly straight rebellious hair; eyes be- 
tween green and grey-green, weak and often sore; a short 
pointed and unpleasant nose. On the other hand, a shapely 
well-cut mouth, and my mother’s delicate complexion. When 
not tearful and sulky, my habitual expression was one of 
Quakerish meekness and demureness, wholly natural and 
wholly unconscious: at any rate now, and until the Serpent 
showed me that in this quakerishness lay a species of attrac- 
tion. 

On the whole I kept a silent tongue in my head; was vol- 
uble only before an audience: Lord Tawborough, or the girls 
at school whom I regaled with Aunt Jael, or (most important) 
myself, my oldest audience. My manners were of a piece with 
my appearance: meek, nervous, old-fashioned, though very 
“grown-up,” in odd contrast with my appearance. Here also 
I discovered later there lurked an asset, an attracting quality. 

Perhaps I was clever. It was a woman’s cleverness, sure- 
ness not of intellect but of intuition, coupled with an uncanny 
judgment in matters where my own emotions were at stake 
or in the motives and actions of others. No. 8 Bear Lawn and 
No. 1 The Quay were my forcing-beds. I was incapable of 
connected thought as opposed to connected emotion, and I 
had no haziest notion of science or logic or business affairs. 
My two possessions were an imagination so vivid that I saw, 
at once, physically and with a perfect clearness of outline, 
whatever I thought of, and a memory so retentive, alike for 
facts and faces, that I can fairly describe it as one of the two 
or three best I have ever known. 

There was a good deal of knowledge in my head: a lob- 
sided mass. What I knew, if usual for my age, was much less 
remarkable than what I did not know. My three special 


304 


MARY LEE 


acquirements were: first, an intimate acquaintance with the 
Word of God that is hardly conceivable today and was rare 
even fifty years ago. Second, excellent French: the new life 
would give me the practice to make perfect. Third, the knowl- 
edge of history I had picked up in my French reading. 
Novels, romances, poetry, were all forbidden; except there- 
fore for Huguenot works, devotional and doctrinal, with which 
Miss le Mesurier had bravely persevered, we were forced to 
fall back exclusively on history. 

I re-produced the drama of history on a gigantic stage, 
as wide as Time, and cast myself for all the leading roles. 
Here again the old handicap of sex enraged me: even though 
it was all make-believe, yet for me, a woman, to live again the 
deeds of men, was but make-believe. Almost all the 
best parts had been taken by men; women were slaves, 
nobodies; unwanted, oppressed; man’s victim — or audience. 
I delighted all the more to read of those few women who, at 
moments throughout the centuries, had held the stage: Joan of 
Arc, Isabella of Castile, Elizabeth Tudor, Elizabeth Farnese. 
I took a pleasure no man could understand in reflecting that 
among the monarchs of England, no less than five were queens- 
regnant. The most extreme delight lay in the deeds of tyrant 
women. When I read of Queen Cleopatra or Empress Cath- 
erine lording it over their subjects — men — dealing out sen- 
sual cruelties and senseless barbarities to men — riding rough- 
shod over the pride and power of men — I exulted, breathed 
hard for joy. It was an instinct stronger than will, some 
atavistic legacy; against my own tastes, too, for in my ex- 
perience — wide in imagination if pitifully narrow in fact — I 
liked men better than women; against my religion also. This I 
discovered at the Misses Primps’, when we were doing English 
history. I found that the great Marian burnings of the Prot- 
estants, with whom alike as Plymouth Sister and human being 
I sympathized, gave me at one and the same time a feeling of 
evil exaltation, inasmuch as it was a woman, albeit Bloody 
Mary, who had the power to send hundreds of men to the stake. 
In the great Malagasy persecution of my own day, my burn- 
ing sympathy with the Christian martyrs hurled over the vul- 
ture-haunted rock of Ambohipotsy was stifled by a brutal lilt- 
ing pleasure that the persecutor was a queen, a woman. Cleo- 


PROSPECTS 305 

patra, Catherine, Mary Tudor, Ranavalona, all these, however 
bad and cruel, had striven to redress the balance of wrong 
which was at all times weighted against their sex and mine. 

The Bible, Brethren Theology, French, some history; that 
was the sum-total of what I knew. What I did not know was 
much more remarkable. Nothing of art, fiction, poetry, rom- 
ance; never a word of Shakespeare, Scott, Milton; nothing of 
contemporary books or events or persons; not even the names 
of Palmerston, Bright, Disraeli, Dickens, Thackeray, Tennyson. 
I did just know that the Duke of Wellington was dead, that 
a war somehow concerned with negro slaves was raging across 
the Atlantic, and that a new Napoleon reigned in France. I 
had never been to any form of lecture, concert, or entertain- 
ment, nor into any normal household of healthy young people. 
Fireside games, the ordinary interests of girlhood, the hundred 
happinesses of family life were all unknown. I had never 
seen a newspaper, touched a pack of cards, nor smelt tobacco. 

My character was what these twenty-three chapters should 
have displayed. If it had not shown the steady development 
of a normal life, still less of a novelist’s creation, it was 
because my circumstances and surroundings did not change 
or enlarge in ordinarily gradual fashion. My life was a 
stringing-together of certain special events and outstanding 
memories — Beetle, Benamuckee, fear that the world would end, 
knowledge of how life began, the terrible epoch of Torribridge, 
Baptism, Brandy — each of which had brought suddenly a 
new series of emotions. Fundamentally I changed little. At 
eighteen I was as at eight, only “more so”; my hates and 
hopes were vivider. On the whole I was less unhappy than 
in my early childhood. The reason was that I had come to 
visualize and daydream more in the future than in the past; to 
hope more than to regret. But always I was lonely. 

The experience of divine companionship had not made me 
want human love less. Self-absorbed to mania, I yet wanted 
nothing so much as to merge my individuality and dissolve my 
self in a loved being. Loving myself, my supreme hope was 
some one I could love more. The some one was ordained 
unalterably, and day and night alike my thoughts were of 
Robbie — my Robbie; i. e., the real Robbie up to seven years 
ago, and a creation of my own fashioning since. On Christmas 


306 


MARY LEE 

Nights, I had him about as near and as physical as ever, though 
never near nor real enough for my need, never the comfort of 
flesh and blood and of perfect spiritual contact for which I 
hungered and waited. I feared the waiting might be long. 
Instinct left n*o doubt that one day we should meet, and mate, 
and marry; but forbade that I should try to force the event 
or seek to discover where he might be or how I might come 
upon him. Temptation overcame me during one rare visit 
of Aunt Martha’s; she knew, however, nothing. Yet why need 
I worry? As sure as heaven or hell he would come to me. 
I had earned love; for all my long unhappy motherless young 
life Robbie was my requital. So much did I believe also in 
the complementary doctrine of an Envious Power that I was 
half -frightened at the success and pleasure the new life abroad 
seemed to promise. Surely I should have to pay for it, per- 
haps by losing Robbie. God gets even. 

Other doubts assailed. Might it not all be a mad vision? 
Did Robbie still remember me as I him, live for me as I for 
him? Was it he himself — in his own bed, wherever it was — • 
who came to me, to be with me, on the anniversaries of our 
embrace; or was it my own intense longing and imagination 
that created the appearance of his presence, which might 
exist in my mind only and not in his? No! the experience 
was too magical not to be real. He remembered me, visited 
me, and one day in plain reality would come to claim me. 
But again — when he came — would love be a complete and 
perfect thing? Was perfect love possible? Should I be able 
to mingle my tired and fearful soul for ever and utterly in his, 
confide in him the utmost secret of my being, lose myself — my 
Self — in him; and, one soul in two bodies, affront together the 
terrors of Eternity? “It is not possible,” leered Doubt. “Your 
soul must stand alone; no love can break down the barrier of 
its eternal isolation. You are alone for ever.” 

Then Doubt gave place to Hope, and I fell to enjoying the 
security and peace of giving myself to him, all my love, my 
fears: one soul in two bodies, clasped in each other’s arms. 
Pride would second Hope. Robbie would be great, famous, 
honoured: a warrior, poet, statesman — I favoured each in turn. 
I would shine in his reflected glory. I felt no discontent at 
this secondary role, and reverting to the true type of a 


PROSPECTS 307 

woman’s megalomania, built not for myself *but for my boy a 
hundred splendid futures. 

I had other ambitions: to see the world, live in new houses, 
meet wonderful people; to do well in life, become powerful, 
famous; somehow, anyhow — through fame as Robbie’s wife, 
as ambassadress perhaps or, in madder m'oments, queen. 
Then there was the old desert-island business, in which as a 
female Robinson Crewjoe I was to burst with panache of 
ostrich feathers and panoply of fame on an astonished world. 
Or I would see myself Tzarina — Mary the Great, Empress and 
Autocrat of All the Russias, Queen of Poland, Grand Duchess 
of Finland, etc., etc., etc.; or Queen of Spain; or Anywhere. 
Never, mind you, the mere idle castle-in-the-air builder! 
Every detail of the steps by which I was to scale these megalo- 
manic heights was worked out in my mind; every mo- 
ment of agony, labour, deception, experienced in my heart. 
My first gesture in success — I sometimes tried to deceive my- 
self it was my chief object — was to do good, succour the poor, 
spread the Gospel, lead poor darkened Russia or poor heathen 
Spain from the false gods of Byzantium or Rome to my own 
true God of Plymouth — and the Taw. A sop to God for 
letting me succeed. 

If I could not change this natural bent of egotism in my im- 
aginings, I was able by prayer and Resolutions to curb my 
selfishness in the things of daily life. My Grandmother’s 
example helped. Whenever she did an unselfish deed I 
should have thought to do myself, I flushed quickly with shame, 
and was readier for the next occasion. In every written Res- 
olution “Do unto others” came to figure first. 

Nor did Ambition fill all my visualizings. As often as creat- 
ing these mad fantastic events that might happen, I was creat- 
ing the exact shape and setting of various events that had to 
happen. My arrival at the Chateau, how Madame la Comtesse 
and her daughter would greet me, my bedroom, the details of 
my daily work: all these were envisaged a hundred times with 
a hundred variations. Aunt Jael’s death; when, how, why? — 
Should I be summoned from France for the funeral, if it hap- 
pened while I was abroad? — My feelings, my anticipated sen- 
timental looking-back as though she was dead already: “Poor 
Aunt Jael, she was hard and cruel at times, hut still — ” My 


308 


MARY LEE 


softening towards her for a few days. (It is no bad plan, in- 
deed, always to treat our fellow-beings with the same respect 
living as we should give them dead.) Or Grandmother’s 
death: and my far-off return to England; or my own death, 
and the first few moments after death. 

The three things I pictured and lived through more often 
than any others were three meetings that I knew lay somewhere 
before me in the path of real life. Two would be meetings- 
again, the other a first encounter. 

Robbie. Uncle Simeon. My Father. 

Dramatic scenes of these three encounters I worked out a 
hundred times with the fullest details of time, place and setting: 
the luxury of first moments, the splendour or scorn of the 
respective denouements. I knew what I should say first. 
I framed every word of the conversation that followed, expe- 
rienced every phase of joy, melodrama and hate. How far the 
realities resembled the anticipations; and how far Instinct 
was right in telling me — against all appearance — that I was 
approaching these three inevitable events by going to France, 
the sequel will show. 

I have called myself worldly. It is true, except that the one 
reality to which through all agonies I held was not of this 
world at all. At moments when my mood could summon no 
happiness from the past nor hope from the future, I had 
always a last refuge-place in the ineffable Love of God, as I 
had felt it once and for all in one miraculous instant. I 
knew it was more real than the world around me or than the 
fears of my own mind; as the supernatural was more real 
than the natural, the thing intuitively felt than the fact as- 
certained, magic than reason. I could seek refuge from 
trouble in a state of magical divine consciousness, in which, 
at perfect moments, I lost all sense of time and space and 
self, all physical sensation, all power to think — everything 
but Love. I was a soul only, the soul of all the world. I 
ceased to be anything. I was everything. I was God and 
God was I. 

I attained this 9tate chiefly by passionate prayer. Some- 
times, however, the trance came upon me quite involuntarily. 
Some notion or idea or word threw me before I knew into a 


PROSPECTS 309 

transport of delight. Chalcedony, Jerusalem, rosemary, 
tribulation: the sound of these words filled me with exquisite 
and supernatural sensations. I would clasp my breasts, close 
my eyes, and open my heart passionately to the presence of 
God. 

On a lower plane were my trick-methods of attaining mys- 
tical sensation: staring at myself or kissing myself in the mir- 
ror, crooning an everlasting “I — I — I” or calling aloud my 
own name for echoes. Different again — a superstitious off- 
shoot of intuition — were my signs, omens, fetishes, lucky num- 
bers. If I could walk to Meeting in exactly a lucky number of 
paces, I knew the service would be specially blessed to me; and 
inevitably it was. The distance I could cover in running across 
a field and counting say seventy-seven was the exact measure, 
thus magically convened to me, of a property or estate which 
would one day be mine. If a lucky number came my way of its 
own initiative, it was an omen of unusual import. Thus when 
I learnt that the Paris house of my French family was No. 77 
Rue St. Eloy, I was certain of high times thereat. 

In all Mrs. Cheese’s superstitions, ranging from West Coun- 
try witchcraft to the happiness of horseshoes or lucklessness of 
ladders, I believed without reserve. I practised Bible-opening, 
which was about the only superstition of my Grandmother’s. 
The first verse that caught the eye — or, in my rite, the most 
heavily red-chalked passage, or, failing that, a verse seven or 
thirty-seven — had a special God-sent message for the moment’s 
need. 

Having discovered the (for me) supernatural nature of the 
world, my mistake was to press my discovery too far. I was 
in danger of believing that I could do anything, however 
omnipotent or divine, if I only knew the trick; conjure up any 
supreme sensation, open the door of all power and mystery and 
pleasure, if I but found the Open Sesame. I sought for the 
catchword which would destroy all Existence; am seeking it 
still. 

Real things that happened did not approach the reality of 
my supernatural experience until they had been brooded upon 
a while in my heart, until my thoughts and passions had 
imbued them with life. At the actual moment of great occur- 


310 


MARY LEE 


rences — Uncle Simeon’s threats, Aunt Jael’s curses, Lord 
Tawborough’s great proposal — I deliberately prevented my- 
self receiving the full emotional effect. Later, alone with my- 
self, I re-lived the scene, and took my fill of rage, bitterness, 
pride, delight. Thus any event affected me much more after it 
had happened than at the time. The instant anger with which 
Aunt Jael’s blow filled me was nothing to the brooding rage 
and revengefulness of the next day. The pang of unavoidable 
shame with which Conscience smote me when I did a mean or 
cowardly deed was as nothing to the agony of self-scorn I 
underwent when some long-past meanness of mine returned to 
my memory — as new and naked as the meanness of some one 
else. This whole childhood of mine is more vivid than when 
I lived it. 

If past events were more real than present ones, future ones 
were the most vivid of all. The past is imagination and mem- 
ory working together. The future is imagination pure. The 
past was Aunt Jael, floggings, dreariness, tears; Uncle Simeon, 
terror, cruelty; a childhood cowering, loveless. The future 
was joy, in a hundred wonderful shapes — Robbie, somehow, 
some time; noble ladies, chateaux of France; visions of history, 
splendour and romance; a fairy land of fame, pleasure and 
glory — peopled, permeated, queened by Mary Lee. For the 
last few weeks at home my soul lived at Bear Lawn no longer. 
Morning, noon and night, sleeping and waking, I dwelt in 
the imaginary land. 

Four days before I left I closed my diary and handed it, a 
sealing- waxed parcel of exercise-books, to my Grandmother. 
This was the last entry: — 

During the past year or two the Lord has been exceeding good to me. 
Fortune has been unusual — for any one. When I started this volume of 
my Diary, I was at the Misses Primps’, with no prospects at all of any- 
thing high ; no hope. And now, I am becoming a lady (almost) ; and I 
am going to France, la belle France! Life is mysterious, and God is 
good ... In my inward life, too, I started this book in the throes of 
the fiercest fear I have even known. Terror, appallment, awe of the 
Lord God and His eternal years; all these assailed me so that I thought 
I should never stand free. Am happier now: slowly yet surely, the.full- 
ness of earthly life, the new hopes springing in my heart, the final 
though hard acceptance of the truth that it is useless for me (finite 


PROSPECTS 


311 


Mary) to measure the length and breadth and age of God, and most 
of all that precious memory of His Holy Spirit, that- I can ever invoke 
in all sorrowful times, — all these have brought me to be able to do 
what my Grandmother does, and to Trust in the Lord. 

Life moves mysteriously. It is that walk near Torribridge years ago, 
when I met the Stranger, that is taking me to France now. And some* 
how, some time — I don’t know how, but I know — France will take me 
back to Torribridge — to R. Shall I meet him in the foreign land? I 
do not know. But he is coming. All my love is poured out on the only 
boy-image that has ever interested me; all my passion I have bestowed 
on one shape only, on my Image, my R. — tenderness and tears, and meet- 
ing lips and bodies; and he takes me in his arms. How I long to see 
him! that I may know his identity with my Image of him, to know for 
always and ever that the Robbie I live with and live for is the real 
eighteen-year-old Robbie who — God make it so! — lives for me. 

Now Bear Lawn is behind me, and all is new and wonderful ahead: 
happiness is coming. Good bye Grandmother dear! This is the end of 
my girlhood’s book; one day I may find joy — and sadness — in reading it. 

Mary Lee. 


April, 1865. 


CHAPTER XXV: I SAY GOOD-BYE 


The last day arrived, a bright showery Sunday in April. 
I was to leave early next morning. Lord Tawborough would 
see me as far as Southampton. 

At my last Breaking of Bread many allusions were made 
in prayer to my departure for foreign lands. If I was not 
going there avowedly in His service, none the less let His 
service be my chief aim and effort. I worshipped devoutly. 
This might be the last Lord’s Supper of which I should ever 
partake. The Lord’s People in France were the merest hand- 
ful; there were not more than four Meetings in all the Em- 
pire, of which not one, Grandmother had ascertained, was in 
Paris or the north or any part I was likely to be near. And 
I might be abroad three or four years without a holiday in Eng- 
land. 

Now that at last my hopes and ambitions were being ful- 
filled, sadness and regret were uppermost. The old life I 
knew so well, the present in which I had still one day to 
live, already seemed far behind me. I looked back in the 
anticipatorily retrospective fashion of all who live in the fu- 
ture; and to whom, living in the future, the present is always 
already the past. 

Already Bear Lawn was the past, decked with a pathos 
that as the present it had never worn. 

The last dinner was a goodly spread: a roast fowl, a hog’s 
pudding, and apple dumplings with clotted cream. Glory 
and Salvation were invited. The latter slobbered noisily of 
how she would miss me; I realized with a sudden sentimen- 
tal pang that, after all, it might be true. Glory wept till the 
tears streamed down her cheeks on to her untidy bodice; I 
watched with a feeling of guilt for her sorrow and the increas- 
ing shamefulness of her blouse. 

The last night was full of odd pauses and silences. Aunt 
Jael kept looking at me and looking away quickly when I 
looked back. She tried to keep up an appearance of stoi- 

312 


I SAY GOOD-BYE 313 

cism and sternness, and knew that she was failing. At the 
last moment she gave up all pretence. In my emotional 
mood, she seemed to atone for years of hardness when she 
turned sharply away from the Book of Proverbs at which her 
Bible opened — it was real sacrifice — and chose for the nightly 
portion my 137th Psalm. I thought of that dismal first night 
at Torribridge so many years ago. 

Later on, at my bedside, my Grandmother prayed a long 
devoted prayer. “Oh Lord Jesus! How my old heart aches 
when I am sometimes tempted to fear that she may be un- 
worthy of that Saint who sits with Thee, her dear dear mother. 
Grant that in foreign lands and the cities of the plain she may 
shun the ungodly and flee from all worldliness and evil. 
Grant, Oh Lord, that we three may meet together in Thine 
Own everlasting arms. For Jesus’ sake.” 

Next morning I was up betimes. Mrs. Cheese, red-eyed and 
tearful, helped me cord my box. “I daun knaw what we 
shall do without ’ee, my dear. Even the oP biddy is sorrow- 
ful, though she’s not enough of a Christian to fancy showin’ 
it.” 

The last moment came. We had finished breakfast. I was 
dressed for the journey, and my brass-nailed box was ready 
in the hall. We awaited the sound of Lord Tawborough’s 
carriage. 

Aunt Jael epitomized. 

“Well, child, you’re at your eighteenth year and you’re 
doing well in life. I’m sure I don’t grudge it ’ee. Your poor 
mother would have been a proud woman to see you going off 
like this to a good post among fine folk; but don’t think as 
much of folk being fine and grand as she did, poor soul. 
All is vanity. Keep lowly. Don’t let your head be turned 
because a fine lord is seeing you on your way to a life amid 
foreign lords and ladies: they’re no better than humbler folk 
before the Lord and not often as good. Profit all you can. 
Never be ashamed of those who brought you up. Maybe 
’twill be three or four years before we see you. A long time 
when we’re old and within sight of the grave. Maybe you’ll 
never see us again.” 

“Oh no, Aunt Jael!” 

“Why not?” said my Grandmother, “ ’tis as likely as not 


314 


MARY LEE 


true. Ye know not the day nor the hour.” (The door 
knocker sounded.) “Come kiss me good-bye and remember I 
shall tell her you’re following after. Love the Lord always.” 

I hold in my mind the last vision of Bear Lawn: Aunt Jael 
and my Grandmother standing at the gate of Number Eight, 
Mrs. Cheese behind weeping in the doorway. I turned round 
in the carriage and waved my hand. I got a last glimpse of 
my Grandmother and Great-Aunt and saw them turn round and 
begin to walk back along the garden path. I saw them 
after they had ceased to see me. That was the real instant 
of parting. 

On the long journey I said little to my companion; wrapped 
up in myself and my own thoughts. Some of the way 
I slept. When we got to Southampton docks, and my last 
Good-bye in England was but a few minutes ahead I remem- 
bered with the greater shame and vividness (that throughout 
the long journey I had forgotten it;) to whom it was I owed 
all the bright prospects before me, how needlessly good and 
generous he had always been, and how utterly unworthy of 
his goodness and generosity I was. 

“Sir,” I said, and my voice was shaky, “I don’t know how 
to thank you for all you have done for me. I’ve no money, 
no power, no anything. But if there’s anything I can make 
or send you to remember me by — if there’s anything at all 
I can do — Is there anything?” 

“Yes: Kiss me.” 

He spoke in a low voice. I trembled with sudden emotion 
and surprise. Then I kissed him on the cheeks, and he kissed 
me. 

There were two old ladies standing near by; “Brother and 
sister,” we overheard one of them say. 

“That’s it, isn’t it?” I said. 

He did not reply. 

There was one more moment before I had to go on to the 
boat. I noticed with a new interest — reviewing with staring 
inquisition every detail of his face — how good and clever and 
refined and aristocratic he was; how more than all he seemed 
sad and hankering and lonely. I could not help apprehend- 
ing after what had happened — but then, no, that was too 


I SAY GOOD-BYE 


315 


absurd. It was but a natural thing to have asked at a parting. 

“Au revoir,” he said in a last handshake, “but not Adieu.” 

It was dusk as we sailed out of Southampton Water. Eng- 
land was a fading piece of purple sky, lying low upon the 
sea; sprinkled with stars, for the harbour lights were show- 
ing. As she faded away I knew that she too belonged to the 
past. 

I went to sleep in my bunk, and awoke in the bright sun- 
shine of France and the future. 




\ 












PART 

TWO 














CHAPTER XXVI: CHATEAU VILLEBECQ 


There came into view a shining white mansion, massive, 
square-looking, three-storied, pierced with high windows and 
covered like a mosaic with newly-painted white Venetian shut- 
ters. A dream-house, gleaming against a background of fresh 
greensward and dark yew-trees. “It is not real,” I said half- 
aloud, and mystery banished disappointment. For I had pic- 
tured battlements, towers, drawbridges : had thought that 
“chateau” meant “castle.” 

Nothing that day had been quite real. Perhaps it was the 
hot spring weather. Or the over-wideawakeness that followed 
a sleepless night — ah, Channel steamboat, stirrings of body 
and soul, desperate illness creating more desperate resolves 
to be good, prayers of “Not this time, God, and I’ll be pure, 
holy!” renewed with each sickening lurch. Or the inevitable 
first-day mystery of the foreign land. 

I had been met at Havre quay-side by a silent crafty little 
man in black, with a face like Punch and a head (when 
with un-English gesture he removed his hat) as smooth and 
bald as an egg. 

“I am Frangois,” was all he vouchsafed. 

I addressed him in French; he did not seem to understand, 
shook his head vaguely and made no reply. A ridiculous 
fear seized me that I did not know French at all, that Miss 
le Mesurier’s lessons had been one mighty sham, false lessons 
in some goblin tongue. 

Or was I dreaming? All the way along the busy quay, 
amid clamouring porters, gesticulating cabmen, and mario- 
nette-like crowds, through unfamiliar streets, and in an un- 
believable railway train, a sense of dreaming had persisted. 

The carriage drew up in front of the great doorway. 
Frangois, by signs, explained that he was entrusted with my 
luggage. A little woman came out on to the steps of the 
porch to greet me, smiling ingratiatingly. She was a tiny, 
shrivelled thing, with bulgy eyes and a high receding fore- 

319 


320 


MARY LEE 


head ridged with careworn lines, the whole dominated by 
an enormous nose: a human dormouse dressed in black. De- 
spite its harassed air, the face was kind; her age might be 
fifty. The housekeeper, I surmised. She shook hands effu- 
sively. 

“Good day, Mademoiselle, so you are here.” 

“Yes, Madame.” 

“You are tired. Come upstairs. I will show you your 
room.” 

My relief at finding that the French I had learnt was real 
after all, was less strong than a sudden feeling of fright — 
religious fright, for God speaks only English — before the 
blasphemous oddness of the thing. After all, my conversa- 
tions with Miss le Mesurier had only been for conversation’s 
sake: by way of learning the trick. But this real talking, this 
conducting of life’s actual business in the foreign jargon! — (I 
prayed swiftly to know. “Little fool,” replied God, in French . ) 

I followed the little old lady into a lofty hall, very cool 
after the heat outside, a cold and stately place. Doors 
opened out of it on every side, surmounted with antlers. 
On the walls I saw armour, old swords, banners. We 
mounted a broad staircase with walls covered in tapestries. 
A mighty staircase. Majesty filled me. 

“Here is your bedroom,” said the little lady, “and this 
door leads through to your study or boudoir, call it what 
you like. I hope you will like them both.” 

“They are beautiful!” I cried, and my heart beat faster as 
I surveyed the bright bedchamber, the bed-hangings in rose- 
coloured chintz, the elegant boudoir with book-case and writ- 
ing-desk and walls covered with portraits and miniatures and 
little racks for cups and vases — all for me. My heart exulted 
in contrasts. Oh, now I was a lady! 

“You will want to wash your hands. I shall wait for you. 
I am so glad you have come. Your presence — that is your 
arrival — it gives me pleasure ... Now come downstairs to 
luncheon to be introduced to us all. They will be so de- 
lighted to see you, dear Mademoiselle, my daughters — ” 

“Then you are — ” 

“Madame de Florian.” 

“The Countess! Oh a thousand pardons!” 


CHATEAU VILLEBECQ 321 

What an un-Brethren-like phrase. And what a bad begin- 
ning. 

She sniggered, was immensely tickled. “Ha! Ha! You 
thought I was a servant.” 

“Oh no! Not really—” 

“Oh yes you did. And that does not surprise me. My 
daughters have always told me I look like an old family serv- 
ant: this will amuse them so. Now come along to luncheon. 
One thing,” she whispered confidentially as she opened the 
bedroom door, “before you begin with my daughters we must 
have a little talk together about them both, and what each 
had best read with you. Ah, they are so different, Elise and 
Suzanne: one would not think them sisters. What anxiety 
it all gives me!” 

And she knitted her brows and half closed her eyes in an 
expression of exaggerated care I thought more comical than 
sad. 

The Countess led the way down the great staircase. In 
place of a door the dining-room had high hanging curtains. 
We passed through them into by far the largest room I had 
ever seen. The floor was of polished wood; there were no rugs 
or carpets. In each distant corner was a complete suit of ar- 
mour; all along the walls stood massive and stately pieces of 
furniture. In the middle of this huge apartment, like an island 
surrounded by an ocean of bare floor, was a table at which 
were seated four persons: two young ladies, a gentleman and a 
little old woman. 

All four stared at me with unconcealed interest. Intro- 
ductions left me in a maze; I was too self-conscious to hear 
names, far too full of the fact that I was being introduced 
to them to concentrate on their being introduced to me. Then 
for the next few minutes I was too busy trying to eat and 
drink aristocratically, acquiring slyly the new ritual of forks, 
and spoons, posing modestly for five pairs of eyes, to hazard 
my own stare-round. Of the conversation, which was con- 
ducted almost exclusively by the Countess and her younger 
daughter Suzanne, and which concerned some peasant mar- 
riage in the district, I found after the first few moments that 
I understood almost everything. The food was as delicious 


322 


MARY LEE 


as it was unfamiliar. There was an omelette with rich little 
crusts in it, and a venison-stew with olives. 

Towards the end of the meal I found courage to take the 
offensive and look round. Wtih pretence of unawareness that 
was pitiful to see, all immediately arranged themselves to be 
gazed at: except the elder girl Elise, who faced me with equal 
eye. 

At the head of the table sat the Countess, full of asides to 
the butler, and peering remorselessly at everybody’s plate. 
When you took a portion of a dish she watched anxiously, to 
appraise quantity. 

On her right, nearly opposite me, sat a tall dark gentleman. 
With his pointed little beard, suave voice and exaggerated 
manners, I decided he was a villain: a true French villain. 
I disliked him at once: his eyes told me he knew it, and they 
reciprocated. His hard eyes (though dark instead of blue), 
identical beard (though black instead of yellow), treacly eyes 
and cat-like gesture, all reminded me of Uncle Simeon. I 
soon learnt that his name was de Fouquier; he was a cousin 
of the late Count’s and steward for the family estates. Like the 
Count, he had played some part in the coup d’etat which had 
placed the reigning Emperor on the throne. He spent most 
of the year at the Chateau, living as one of the family. 

Next to him, and immediately opposite me was my principal 
charge, Mademoiselle Suzanne: a big healthy young woman, 
a few months younger than myself, but a year or two older 
in appearance. She was fair-haired, big-featured and bright- 
eyed. A large mouth with full red lips proclaimed her 
sister to Maud — and daughter to Eve. She was lively, kind 
and perhaps stupid. She was always laughing. 

At the end of the table, facing the Countess and immediately 
on my left, sat Mademoiselle Elise, the elder daughter. She 
was unhealthily pale; her eyes were fixed-looking, with dark 
rims underneath, as though she hardly slept. The oddest fea- 
ture was the forehead, high and of a marble whiteness that 
made the blue veins stand out. There was something cross 
and soured in her expression: also something miserable that 
reminded me of myself — the first condition of sympathy. 

Finally, beside me, and on the Countess’ left, sat a wizened 
little woman, a tinier edition of the tiny Countess, but sal- 


CHATEAU VILLEBECQ 323 

lower, uglier and sharper-featured: ferret rather than dor- 
mouse. A pair of enormous blue spectacles enabled her to 
observe without being observed. She was the Countess’ lady- 
companion. Her name, absurdly enough, was Mademoiselle 
Gros. 

The plainness and ordinariness of them all was what struck 
me most. I had pictured stately and distinguished persons — 
grand, noble, French — and here was a company quite as ugly 
and plebeian as the Meeting. No one fulfilled my notion of 
aristocrats! No one resembled the Stranger. 

After luncheon, Mademoiselle Suzanne came up to my 
rooms to help me unpack. She prattled ceaselessly, in Eng- 
lish, which she spoke well, though I found reason to correct 
her every few moments and thus to begin my duties. 

“I shall like you, I know. I hated Miss Jayne: that’s our 
governess when we were little: she was very ugly and severe. 
I teased her all I dared. Once I kicked her, but I was only 
nine. Mademoiselle Soyer, who taught us last, was really 
French, though her mother was English, so she doesn’t count. 
Our other governesses were all French; but” (quickly) “you 
are not a governess of course; you are to be a friend. I am 
sure you will like it with us: You can do whatever you want: 
ride — you do ride? — go to picnics and excursions; there are 
very pretty places near here. I am so glad you are not what 
I feared. Your cousin[!]Lord Tawborough told Mamma you 
were so clever. And some English women, you know — you 
know what I mean. But we shall be friends, real friends, I 
know it.” 

“Do you?” thought I. “You are friendly and kind, but not 
at all like that unknown thing I hoped so hard to find, a real 
friend of my own age and sex, whom I could be free with, 
confide in — not love, for that there is only Robbie — who 
could sometimes take the place of the Other Me in my talks 
and visions, who could end the loneliness.” 

She paused in her babyish fiddling with my possessions. 
“What are you thinking about? You are not listening.” 

“Oh nothing,” I said, a shade guiltily, for I was taken with 
one of my intuitive panics: Suppose she had guessed 
my thoughts? But the big eyes were staring at me 
with nothing beyond vague curiosity. To make amends, I set 


324 


MARY LEE 

to and tattled in the liveliest and worldliest fashion I knew. 

“Oh how droll you are, and what good times we shall have 
together.” 

Dinner (no Supper now: I was a lady!,) found me already 
much more at ease. I corrected some mistake in Mile. 
Suzanne’s pronunciation, and that set the table going. While 
Weather is the conversational shield and buckler of the Eng- 
lish or of the French against themselves, against each other 
it is the oddness and madness of the other’s tongue. 

“Heavens!” cried Suzanne. “That makes five ways I know 
of to pronounce ough in English. It is mad, absurd.” 

“There are seven ways at least,” I boasted. 

“There’s nothing like that in our language. French is 
so simple.” 

“Oh? What about the irregular verbs?” 

“You’ve got them too, quite as many.” 

“But they’re not so irregular as yours: in fact, most of 
them aren’t really irregular at all!” 

“Oh, not really irregular at all! Am, be, is, are : or go, 
went, been; aren’t they irregular enough for you?” 

“And the spelling, oh dear!” put in the Countess. . . . 

This sort of thing is as gay and unfailing as a fountain. 
Thanks to the good oddities of my mother-tongue, on my very 
first evening in this strange land I was beginning to feel at 
home. Certainly I talked more than at any meal in the eighteen 
years before. Everywhere else I had been a child, a chattel: a 
thing to be bullied and silenced (Aunt Jael), tortured (Uncle 
Simeon), exhorted (the Saints), prayed for (Grandmother). 
The new unconstraint exhilarated me; my natural bent for 
talking came into its own. Here I was listened to, expected to 
shine, deferred to. I was clever: I was amusing: 1 was a lady! 

Alone in my cosy bedroom, with the lamp lit, I reviewed my 
first impressions. How good it all was: comfort, ease, dainty 
food, fine surroundings; kindliness, deference; freedom, im- 
portance. Luxurious liberty filled me: after eighteen years of 
prison I had escaped. But would things continue as well as 
they had begun? Or were there new perils ahead? Then 
Conscience pricked. Is it right, this life of ease, this new at- 
mosphere of careless liberty: is it of the Lord? What place 


CHATEAU VILLEBECQ 325 

has religion here? Where is God? Has any one of these 
fine folk spoken, or even thought, of holy things during one 
moment of this day? HAVE YOU? 

It was late. I opened my Bible, and turned, involuntarily, 
inevitably, to the one hundred and thirty-seventh psalm. I 
read it through aloud. None of the old emotion, none of the 
old misery returned; as I read I tried almost to force it back. 
Where had fled the wretchedness of that other first night of a 
new life, in the dreary chamber at Torribridge? Where was 
the desperate luxurious loneliness of that time? Had the fatal 
atmosphere of France, the Papist Babylon, already in an hour 
magically completed a change that the easier times of the past 
few years had begun? Was I deprived of my oldest privilege, 
my misery? Had I become unworthy of unhappiness? I 
contrasted myself bitterly with the unhappy Mary of seven 
years back. Ease was poisoning my soul. I dwelt with per- 
verse envy on the wretched little girl of that other night, and 
then fell to picturing all the unhappiness that had framed my 
life, from the long agony of my mother before she bore me to 
the daily oppression of the years that followed. Soon I was 
shedding tears of pity for my unhappy past self: weeping, if 
not for Zion. (More and more, as the contrasts of my new 
life developed, I indulged in this glad unhappiness of sen- 
timental backward-looking, mimicked and dramatized the 
sincerity of my old child’s misery, wallowed in retrospective 
self-pity, cried amid present ease: “Ah, what a sad life was 
mine!”) That I could weep for it as past showed me how 
wide and sudden was the gulf between the new life and the 
old. I resolved to widen it. 

Already a new person — an empty, a surface Mary, of whose 
existence within me I had sometimes had half-realized and 
swiftly-vanishing notions — seemed to have sapped the fortress 
of my soul, to have assumed command of “Me”: a person with 
the same brain, the same will, the same body, but another soul, 
or no soul. My brain decided to stifle for a while the old 
Mary, to let this emptier, ease-fuller personality be all myself. 
Then at the end of a space of time, I should know which was 
the stronger, which was the realler Me. I never doubted but 
that I should be free to make my choice. ? 


326 


MARY LEE 


I chose my Resolutions carefully, prayed them aloud, put 
them on paper, sealed them in time-honoured envelope: — 

(1) I will cease all visions and daydreams. 

(2) I will abandon all magic tricks, numbers and hopes. 

(3) I will play with none of my Terrors: Hell, Satan, Eternity. 

(4) I will not brood. I will fight my distrust of happiness, my evil 

instinct that for every moment of pleasure the Lord will make 
me pay to the uttermost farthing. 

(5) I will seek none of the ecstasies of religion; not try to experience 

the Rapture, nor dwell overmuch on holy things. Resting 
from a too great pleasure in God, at the end of the period I 
am setting myself I may find myself nearer to Him. (A 
wise experiment, whispered a Voice: perhaps God’s, perhaps 
the Devil’s.) 

(6) Only, I will read His Word daily, and have for every moment 

the motto “What would He do?” 

(7) Except at Christmas only, I will not think of Robbie. If at the 

end of the time, he is as clear and close as ever, I shall know 
myself and him better, just as with God (5). 

ALL THESE THINGS, for the rest of this year 1866, eight months 
and more [precisely thirty-seven weeks I noticed with a twinge of 
emotion which was itself an involuntary breach of (2)], I do, with God’s 
help, here and now RESOLVE. 

M. L. 

On the envelope I wrote in capitals “Very Private” in 
English and “Personnel” in French, added “April 17th, 1866” 
and signed “M. L.” — the death-warrant of Mary I, proclama- 
tion from the throne of Mary II. And I undressed, and slept 
like a lady. 


CHAPTER XXVII: MARY THE SECOND 


The Countess cornered me next morning for her “little 
talk,” conducting me to her own particular apartment. 
Mademoiselle Gros was present. She always was, I soon 
found: a familiar spirit rather than a companion. She sat on 
a low chair knitting, and if her eyes, or rather goggles, were 
never raised, I could see that her ears were drinking every- 
thing in. The Countess, who spoke in a kind of loud whis- 
per, seemed almost oblivious of me, as one repeating her 
thoughts aloud to herself: I was merely a good atmosphere 
in which to recite her woes. 

Suzanne, you know. A mere child, good-natured, im- 
pulsive — like her father — not clever, but with a will of her 
own and at times a hot temper — like her father. She gave 
no real trouble: yet caused her mother many anxieties: how, 
was not stated. Elise; ah that was a different matter! She 
was intelligent, fond of study, with a practical head for 
affairs and money. But so self-centred, so secretive; and so 
sharp-tongued, so undaughterly when reproved! And in 
her sullen way, far more obstinate even than her sister. She 
could never be made to do anything: one had given up trying 
long ago. . . . 

“Ah Mademoiselle, if you but knew. It is not easy, to be 
an old woman alone in the world with two young daughters. 
They are all I have. I hope they will marry well, but rich 
husbands are not easy to find, when the girls are poor. We 
are poor, you know.” 

“Poor, Madame?” I cried, “with this great chateau?” 

“ Because of this great chateau, Mademoiselle. You can- 
not know how expensive it is to keep up. Expenses are always 
going up, and rents and farms are always going down. 
Things are not what they were. Elise will succeed to this 
place, and to the little money we have. It is not enough; the 
only thing is for her to find a husband rich enough to spend 
money on the estate. But she is so strange, so difficult; 
mocks at the idea of marrying; declares she hates all men — is 

327 


MARY LEE 


328 

it not horrible? Says that if, by any impossible chance, she 
ever did marry, it would be just whom she fancies, rich as a 
king or poor as a rat. There is no other girl in France like 
her. It is unbelievable. For Suzanne, too, a good marriage 
is important: but I fear the dot I can give her is not big enough 
to secure the sort of husband I want. You see, Mademoiselle, 
what anxieties a mother has.” 

Suddenly she woke up and seemed to become aware I was a 
conscious being. “You are surprised I talk to you so freely? 
You are young, I know, but so grave, so English, so wise; I 
feel you will influence my children for the good. You will 
help me, dear young Mademoiselle, will you not? You will 
be my ally?” (This word with a snigger, as though trying to 
pretend she did not mean it.,) “And then English is such a 
sensible thing to study, so useful an accomplishment in Society. 
Perhaps I will look through the books you read together — 
though I know you would choose nothing unsuitable — if ever I 
get time. Oh dear! We are so glad you are here. Our first 
impression is delightful. Remember you are not a governess 
but a friend.” 

“You are too kind, Madame. You are all very good to me. 
I always knew I should like the French, I have always said so 
to myself.” 

“Now really? I cannot truthfully return the compliment — 
promise me you will not take offence — though I have always 
liked individual English people I have met. My family have 
always been fighting your countrymen. Oh dear, I am always 
interrupted.” 

This was in response to a few suggestive throat-clearings 
from Mademoiselle Gros. “Time for you to go into Caudebec 
for the shopping, is it? Why, it is barely nine o’clock: don’t 
worry me so, you have plenty of time. No, no” (looking at 
her watch), “It is gone half-past, you must hurry off at once. 
Why couldn’t you remind me sooner? Here is the list — 
don’t lose it — and here are fifty francs — No, you will need 
sixty. And don’t go forgetting again to call at Lebrun’s and 
pay him his account. I will write about the other matter, so 
say nothing. No, you had better just say — no, after all, say 
nothing. Here are the three hundred francs; three hundred 
francs — it is terrible.” 


329 


MARY THE SECOND 

“Now,” as the dwari-like creature slunk away, “where was 
I, dear Mademoiselle? Oh yes: my father was in the Navy, 
and fought with Villeneuve at Trafalgar, while my husband 
and his relatives were all in the Army; his father, the famous 
Count de Florian — the girls’ grandfather — was at Waterloo, 
serving as a general under the great Emperor himself. 
Trafalgar, Waterloo: what more would you have? But then 
English is so useful, it is spoken everywhere: there is England 
with all her colonies, and the Americans speak English too, 
don’t they? The Court Ladies all talk it, and our best families. 
So when the girls were quite tiny, I got them an English gov- 
erness, a Miss Jayne; sensible, but very harsh, and not quite 
a lady. When they were older, I looked about for a young 
English lady to perfect them. Then our good English friend, 
Lord Tawborough, told me of a young cousin of his, who would 
suit perfectly. ‘Protestant?’ I asked him, for after all religion 
is important, is it not? ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘as you know nearly 
all of us are; and a devout one too. But of course she would 
never dream of trying to influence your daughters!’ You 
wouldn’t, Mademoiselle, would you?” 

“Oh, no! Madame,” I replied, breaking a lifetime’s vows. 

“Naturally not. You are a good Protestant, we are good 
Catholics. But there is tolerance, is there not?” 

“Yes,” huskily. The new philosophy affected my voice. 

“I knew you would think like that. The best way is for 
you never to refer to religion at all, don’t you agree?” 

“Yes, Madame,” denying for the third time. And im- 
mediately in the ears of my spirits, the cock crew. I flushed. 
Madame stared, wondered, and said nothing. 

I sought to turn the subject. “How did you first meet Lord 
Tawborough?” I enquired. “I should be much interested to 
hear.” 

“Has he never told you? Well, he was introduced to us by 
one of my dear husband’s friends, another Englishman, a 
cousin of his; a much older man, whom my husband knew 
through friends of the family in Paris. So distinguished too, 
with a head of perfectly white hair, and so well-groomed; the 
perfect type of English gentleman. He lived in France. I 
think he didn’t get on very well with Lord Tawborough, had 
quarrelled with the latter’s father or something like that. The 


330 


MARY LEE 


last time I saw Lord Tawborough, he hadn’t seen him for years; 
I think he still lives somewhere or other in France. So 
distinguished, though pious with it: a Protestant, of course, 
but a perfect gentleman.” 

“Which cousin, I wonder? Was he married?” 

“He had been, I believe, but his wife was dead. She had 
treated him shamefully, I heard, and finally ran away. I 
never quite found out, you know; these things are sometimes 
hard to discover, aren’t they? One day we may meet again; 
like all my dear husband’s friends, he has a standing in- 
vitation to the Chateau. Poor Monsieur Traies, I wonder 
what has become of him.” 

I could not hide my extreme emotion, and for a second my 
brain was too numb to invent a pretext. 

“Oh Madame,” I cried faintly, “I feel ill all of a sudden,” 
and I rushed from the room, and upstairs to my bedroom. 

He was in France. I might meet him in this very house. 
It was not the coincidence which affected me, but the sud- 
denness with which an old vision had become a near pos- 
sibility. Nature and habit were stronger than last night’s 
Resolution, and pacing about my room I rehearsed in hectic 
detail all the mad alternative ways in which the meeting would 
take place, the long-planned denouement be achieved. 

By luncheon I had calmed down and could pass the sudden 
sickness off as a turn I often had when tired. 

“Fatigues of the journey,” sympathized the Countess. 

Next day I began my duties. The program was an hour 
or two’s Conversation with Suzanne, followed by Reading 
with Elise. From the first day the former was nothing more 
(or less) than a chat, sometimes slanderous, mostly frivolous, 
always friendly: developing my golden talent for tattle, and 
in the idlest and surest fashion perfecting Suzanne’s English. 
We became the best of companions. 

Elise began by giving me a fright. “I love your poets,” 
she said in her precise plaintive English, “Shakespeare best of 
all, though” (proudly) “very few French people do. We will 
read his plays together. I have read most of them, but you will 
know them far better. I should like to begin with either Mac- 
beth or Othello, my two favourites. Which do you advise?” 

I had never heard of either. 


CHATEAU VILLEBECQ 331 

“You see me colouring,” I laughed nervously. “You have 
guessed: I am a bit ashamed of not knowing my Shakespeare 
as well as I can see you do.” 

The half-lie saved me. It most intimately flattered her 
vanity: that she, the French girl, should be thought to know 
an English poet better than I. No variety of self-content is 
more delicous than that which fills a foreigner when she can 
soar over the natives in knowledge of their own land. 

“You are too modest,” said Elise. “Now which of those 
two plays shall we begin with?” 

I had clean forgotten one title, and was not sure of repeating 
the other correctly. “Which do you think? It is you who 
should choose,” I returned generously. At all costs she 
must repeat one of the names. 

“Macbeth then. I think it is the finer.” 

“Yes, Macbaith,” I agreed, imitating her pronunciation as 
closely as I could. “Perhaps you would lend me your copy. 
Reading it through would”— I recoiled from “refresh my 
memory” — “would be useful. I’ll read it over tonight. The 
Countess won’t mind my reading in my room?” 

“Your room is yours to do what you like in. We all do 
what we like here; I hope you’ll do the same.” 

So that night the bedroom of a French Chateau saw me 
make the acquaintance of the greatest of my fellow-coun- 
trymen, of multitudinous seas and perfumes of Araby, 
and of a theme new in print only: a woman’s vaulting ambi- 
tion. 

Reading, in fact, by myself or with Elise, became my chief 
distraction. Elise’s sour face held no sour looks for me. I 
would watch the high blue-veined forehead and the sad white 
face as we were reading together. For the first time — with 
the one exception of Lord Tawborough, in whom also intel- 
ligence and purity, in their manlier setting, were the qualities 
that attracted me — I found myself admiring some one, ac- 
knowledging frankly to myself that here was something bet- 
ter than I. Her kindness, her sadness, her literary enthusiasm 
all heightened the effect; and in the ardour of books and dis- 
cussion sprang up my first real friendship. It ripened slowly, 
for she was as proud as I. We did not wallow in confidences, 
knowing that at the right moment they could come. 


332 


MARY LEE 


My private reading was voracious, sharpened by years of 
unconscious hunger. I read novels, poetry and travel, chiefly 
in French: one subject became an enthusiasm, the history of 
France, and one part of that subject a mania. 

Of the glory of this world I knew nothing. It burst on me 
now in one vision, one shape, one glad triumphant name: the 
name and shape and vision of France. I devoured every 
map, every picture, every book of geography or history the 
library contained. I learnt to know the living soul and 
lilting name of each river and city and! province, from 
this Normandy of Chateaux and cider-orchards and Vikings 
and churches to Provence loved of the sun and limned by the 
Midland Sea; from fervid Gascony to brave Lorraine. I 
loved the victorious shape: that stands firm on the straight 
Pyrenees, turns a proud Breton shoulder to the wide Atlantic, 
and bears on the breast of old Alsace the swing and swerve 
of the whole eastward Continent. Best of all I loved the 
story: Gauls and Romans, Troubadours and Crusaders, Kings 
and Dauphins, Huguenots and Leaguers, lilies and eagles, 
laughter and war. I see them always as from some hilltop, 
a tented and bannered multitude spread on a vast twilight 
plain beneath me, reaching to the utmost horizon of history. 

Above them all, in the highest heaven, there shines a Star. 
It is Napoleon. 

I lived every moment from the island-birth to the island- 
death, from Ajaccio to the Rock; knew the emotion of each 
time so well that I believed I could have been Napoleon, came 
to feel I had been Napoleon, and could revel in retrospective 
megalomania with no betrayal of Resolution: for I was weav- 
ing no futures for myself, but living another’s past. An- 
other’s, yet mine. For as I read I found that I remembered 
the lonely childhood, the sour school-days; the hopes of ’96, 
the springtide of Italy; the summertide of glory; Austerlitz, 
Notre Dame, the crown of battles and the crown of gold; with 
God’s revenge for good days gone: — the wintertime of Russia; 
the defeat, the disaster, the desertion; the giant self-pity of 
Longwood. Ah, those were great days. And now I was 
Mary. 

For a long time I thought the Nephew ridiculous. The 
pictures I saw everywhere portrayed a kind of sleepy Uncle 


MARY THE SECOND 333 

Simeon, bloated, heavier, stupider, but not less crafty. But 
I kept my thoughts to myself. For the family were staunch 
adherents of the reigning Emperor. 

Then, one day, Elise gave me a book describing his younger 
days. Again I found that I remembered. I wa 9 Louis-Napo- 
leon too. He was the great Napoleon. We were all one. In 
the world there was only one Person. Every one was every 
one else. My heart — God — once more I had nearly reached 
the Mystery. . . . 

He was a real Napoleon, this living King, who, when as 
a little child they tore him away from the Tuileries (when 
the uncle fell and was abandoned), cried out aloud in rage pro- 
phetic: “I shall come back,” and through madness and 
mockery and passion and prison — came back. 

If books were my most personal pleasure, I settled down 
to enjoy every phase of the new easeful life: fine bedroom 
and boudoir (I would exult aloud that they were mine) ; 
perfect servants who spared you cleaning your own boots, 
making your bed and folding your clothes; bright days in the 
park with Suzanne and her chatter; rides, drives, picnics; 
excursions to Jumieges, to Caudebec, to neighbouring man- 
sions, to old Rouen, jewelled with wonderful papist churches. 
A “No English after dinner” rule of the Countess’ enabled 
me to improve my French almost to perfection, and this 
acquisition of another tongue contributed to the change in 
my character: words make thoughts rather than thoughts 
words: language is the lord of life. Soon this new insouciant 
way of treating life, which but a few weeks earlier would 
have been incomprehensible, appeared the natural one. I 
forgot love, and God, and misery. Mary II had won. Bear 
Lawn became distant and half-real. A thin bridge of memory, 
which Resolution forbade me to traverse, spanned the widen- 
ing gulf between the two lives. The very intenseness of the 
old days was the reason they so soon became unreal. I had 
learnt to live each instant in over-intense and concentrated 
fashion: I could not do it in the present and past as well. 

None of my minor fears were realized. I had thought my 
humble upbringing might make itself seen; but no, to all and 
sundry I was announced as “the cousin of a Lord” (lusciously 
pronounced laurrr by the Countess) and taken for granted 


334 


MARY LEE 


as a young English gentlewoman of orthodox antecedents. I 
justified my pleasure by the reflection that it was all literally 
true, though in my heart I knew that the true Me was poor 
middle-class go-to-Meeting Mary. All my ways were found 
“so English, so quaint, so Puritan, so clever, so charming.” 
Well-chosen hints of the oddness and rigour of Bear Lawn 
excited interest, amusement, pity, each in their turn delec- 
table: how it pleased, flattered, touched me! The Clinkers 
and Aunt Jael became victims in a repertoire, butchered to 
make a Norman holiday. Nor need I have feared for my 
table-manners with these French aristocrats who wiped their 
plates with their bread and supped and squelched and chewed 
in almost dorian fashion; while Aunt Jael in hawkiest mood 
never rivalled the mesmeric stare which Madame la Comtesse 
de Florian bestowed on other people’s plates. 

The eternal visualizing was the one habit of old days 
which I could not completely shake off. My Napoleonizing 
was one outlet; for the rest, the intrigues and excitements 
that the next few months were to furnish brusquely stemmed 
the tide. Stage-manager of a real drama, I had less need 
to act imaginary ones. 

I had soon divined, beneath the lightness, an odd con- 
straint around me. At table there were unpleasant silences, 
when I could feel that my companions were hostile to each 
other. I noticed that the Countess, Elise and Suzanne only 
spoke to me on intimate or serious topics when we were alone. 
Every talk worth remembering had been a deux ; they were 
not, I thought, ashamed of me but of themselves, not shy of 
me but of each other. Of love as I, who had not known it, 
felt it should be between mother and daughter and sister 
and sister, the great house held little. Elise alone, I was 
beginning to discover, had a jealous and passionate regard 
for her sister, inadequately returned. The Countess’ feeling 
for her daughters, worldly solicitude or whatever it was, 
contained I believe no particle of real love; she mistrusted 
them, feared them, and avoided close contact with them, 
especially with Elise. In return Suzanne ignored while Elise 
almost despised the mother. Monsieur de Fouquier’s position 
puzzled me. He seemed to be valued as a steward, honoured 


MARY THE SECOND 


335 


as a relation, and disliked as a man. Elise mistrusted him. 
The Countess was frightened of him. Suzanne — I did not 
know. He was excessively polite to me, but spoke little. At 
table Ferret-Blue-goggles was silence itself, though alone with 
the Countess I think she had a good deal to say. All the 
family showed me uniform kindness, genuine and spontaneous, 
though after a time I detected method in it too. I felt that 
each one of them separately — Elise over books, Suzanne dur- 
ing our walks and talks, the Countess in her “as one woman 
to another” confidences — was bidding for the chief place in 
my affections; seeking me, as the Countess had put it, as an 
ally. 

I was a valuable piece on the Villebecq chessboard. A 
hand was stretched forth, and played the opening move. 


CHAPTER XXVIII: LAYING-ON OF HANDS 


We were sitting at luncheon one day about the end of the 
summer. 

Suddenly the Countess arose from her seat, erect, pale with 
fury, pointing at Suzanne. 

“Leave the table, wretched vicious girl! Go to your room! 
And you, Sir” — to Monsieur de Fouquier — “will leave my 
house without delay.” 

There was a moment’s intense silence. No one moved. All 
stared. 

“Madame — ” began de Fouquier suavely. 

“Not a syllable! It is not required. Business can be 
wound up in a few hours; and I do not doubt I shall find a 
successor who will serve me not less well than you. Gentle- 
manly conduct indeed! — handling and embracing my 
daughter — ” 

“Mother” — it was Elise who spoke — “are you quite de- 
mented?” For one who was not a principal she was inexplic- 
ably white and hard. 

“Quite, I think,” rejoined her sister, not at all as though 
the chief person concerned, hut relieved to have a word to 
echo. 

“Wretched girl. You dare deny — ?” Here Mademoiselle 
Gros nudged and whispered. The Countess walked swiftly 
round the table to her daughter, and snatched at her left 
arm. “Deny now, will you? Ha! Ha! Look at your wrists; 
deny if you can.” 

We all stared. The white finger-pressure of another hand 
was unmistakable. 

“Deny?” cried Suzanne scornfully, “of course I do. He 
holding my hand under the table! What an idiotic idea, just 
the sort of idea you would have. Dear me, how horrible if 
he had! That’s what your filthy little spy thinks she saw 
through her filthy smoked glasses. The liar!” 

“Those marks, then, Mademoiselle, if you please” — her 
336 


LAYING-ON OF HANDS 


337 


mother sneered confidently — “Be so very kind as to explain.” 

“Those marks, then, Madame, if you please! I suppose 
you’re not my mother, Madame, if you please, and know 
nothing of the little habit I’ve always had of sitting with 
my hands in my lap, with my left wrist clasped in my right 
hand, my own amorous right hand? I had finished my 
dessert, and — yes, I admit it — was sitting in that wicked po- 
sition. And I will again. And, what is more, I won’t have 
you and your accusations. I’m not a baby in long clothes, 
and I won’t be spied on and shrieked at in that mad way. 
And I’ll squeeze my wrist till it bleeds if I choose to.” 

Too confident, too explanatory. Lying was not in her line. 
But de Fouquier preserved an unruffled silence. I was not 
sure. The Countess too was wavering. 

Ferret whispered again. “Not true.” We all heard. 

“Listen, Madame,” said Elise, very hard and pale, “there 
is one person who will leave this house without delay: that 
little spy. Order her to go at once: Now!”, savagely. 

“I won’t,” piped the Countess, “I am mistress in my own 
house.” 

“Then I will,” and turning to Mademoiselle Gros, “You 
have just two minutes to leave this table of your own free will, 
and till tomorrow to relieve the Chateau of your presence. 
If not, I’ll drag you from the room myself, or ring for the 
servants to help me.” They all cowered (except de Fouquier) 
before Elise. 

“Yes, go I will, my poor Countess,” squeaked the creature, 
trying to make valour appear the better part of discretion. 
“I can bear your daughters’ insults no longer.” Out she 
skedaddled, tap-tap-tapping across the wooden floor in the 
midst of a momentous silence. 

Then Elise turned sharply to her mother. “All you have to 
do is to apologize humbly to Suzanne and Emile. The whole 
thing is a mare’s nest. Have you ever seen anything before to 
make you suspect anything of the sort? No, and you know 
you have not. It is utterly unlike my sister. As to Emile, I 
know him a good deal better than you do — •” 

“Evidently”; sneering feebly. 

“There’s a stupid muddle-headed sneer. You can’t have it 
both ways. If it is me you suspect of love-making with our 


338 


MARY LEE 


cousin, say so openly and withdraw it about Suzanne. Is it 
proofs you want? Oh, I can produce authentic marks of 
loving pressure soon enough.” She clutched savagely at her 
own wrist, scratching it with her nails. “There, mother, dear, 
there is a spot of blood: now you are convinced. I admit all, 
all. You may shriek ‘Wretched, vicious girl’ at me till your 
voice fails you. But one thing you may not, shall not, do. 
You shall not talk to my sister like that, not if you were my 
mother ten times over. That is an order. And for a piece 
of advice only, don’t talk quite so preposterously to Emile.” 

“You are grown very fond of our cousin all of a sudden; 
with your ‘Emile’ this and your ‘Emile’ that. It is rather 
sudden.” 

“Oh, no, my dear mamma: it has been a very gradual affair 
on the contrary : a passion th*at has been eating* my heart out 
month by month, day by day, hour by hour. Oh Love, Love. 
I live in it, it is my joy, my life! Oh God, it is cruel!” With 
a laugh (or sob) she ran from the table, and hurriedly left 
the room. 

Four of us were left. There was a new unpleasant pause. 
No sign or look passed between Suzanne and de Fouquier. I 
was moved by the display of raging hate in this peaceful 
family, and bewildered to know what it might all mean. The 
Countess was sniffing tearfully, mopping her eyes with a tiny 
cambric handkerchief. 

“No need for that,” cried Suzanne sharply. “You have not 
yet apologized to Emile.” 

He broke his discreet silence at last, suavely, full of forgive- 
ness. “No, my dear cousin, pray do not talk to your mother 
like that. ’Tis I who am sorry. It is not Madame’s own 
fault; I have always felt that Mademoiselle Gros was putting 
false ideas into her mind, poisoning her outlook, playing 
treacherously on her maternal fears, slandering each one of us. 
Now she is going, and we shall breathe a purer atmosphere.” 

Madame continued to sniffle. 

“Don’t-know-what-to-believe.” 

Neither Suzanne nor Monsieur de Fouquier gave her any 
enlightenment, though she looked furtively up first at one and 
then the other. Then with an appealing “Help me” glance 


LAYING-ON OF HANDS 


339 


she turned in my direction. So, instantly, did the others. 
“Remember, dear Mademoiselle, that we’re friends,” was the 
burden of one look : “Beware, young lady, or we’ll be enemies” 
of the other. 

“I think it must all be an unfortunate misunderstanding, 
Madame,” I said. “Personally, I noticed nothing.” (Judicial, 
judicious.) 

Here Frangois entered; bald-headed, Punch-faced, beaky- 
eyed. He looked completely incognizant of the storm that 
had been raging: exactly as though he had been listening out- 
side the whole time. The united-front-before-servants which 
we hastened to display would have failed to deceive the dullard 
which Frangois certainly was not. 

Both Suzanne and her mother began eye-signalling “See you 
after” to me, the more emphatically when each perceived the 
other. Suzanne first, I decided: she was my friend, and with 
her I should get nearer the truth of it all. But as we rose from 
the table, the Countess laid her hand affectionately on my 
shoulder, and led me, unavoidably, to her boudoir. 


CHAPTER XXIX: HAPPY FAMILY 


Here we fourfd Mademoiselle Gros, already bonneted, and 
shawled. I went over to the window, where my ears drank in 
a little comedy of pathetic explanation and injured silence; 
humiliating apology and continued silence, generous proposal 
of one month’s salary, hinted acceptance of three. From the 
three months’ minimum Ferret would not budge; in the Count- 
ess’ soul fear of a new scene fought an attacking battle -against 
long-entrenched parsimony; fear won — and money passed. 

“I will see you have the carriage for the station. The Havre 
train: you are returning to your relatives there? Go'od, I will 
see you again at the moment of departure.” 

“Thank you, Madame la Comtesse. I will take leave now 
of my successor .” And she held out her wizened claw to me. 

“Well, I hope she will be,” said the Countess. “You will, 
dear Mademoiselle, will you not?” she asked, as the door closed 
upon the other. 

“How, Madame? Mademoiselle Gros’ successor?” 

“Oh, I don’t mean as lady’s companion, of course, not as her 
official successor.” (Nervous snigger.) “For that post I must 
try to find some one else. It will be difficult: they are all so 
exacting nowadays, so unreliable. Oh, it will be difficult. I 
meant, would you succeed poor little Gros as my friendly 
adviser, my confidante?” 

“But, Madame, I am so young. A young foreign girl, who 
knows very little of the world! I hope always to be your 
friend; but a confidante, like Mademoiselle Gros — I don’t think 
I should like to — ” 

“Mademoiselle, there are many things I do not like, also. 
Do you think that I like to be spoken to by .my own children as 
I was in front of ‘a young foreign girl’ this morning? I come 
of an ancient family: there is still pride in France. The new 
generation of young girls is terrible. I would never have 
dared to speak to my dear mother as Suzanne and Elise do to 
theirs; I would have died first — ” 

340 


HAPPY FAMILY 


341 


“Madame,” I interrupted, “do you love your daughters?” 

“Love them? of course I do! At the same time — ” She 
shrugged her shoulders and resumed her plaint. 

“Ah, it is hard; I fly from trouble, and it comes always my 
way. I need peace, and there is always strife. I am so un- 
happy, so worried, so alone; I trust no one, I believe nothing 
they tell me. If our relatives were to hear of this! But they 
shall not; not for worlds would I confide in them. But one 
must confide in somebody, mustn’t one? You, Mademoiselle, 
you have seen now the kind of thing I have to bear — I am only 
surprised that you have been so long here without seeing an ex- 
hibition like today’s. You know now how my daughters treat 
their mother — ” 

“Madame,” I interposed, “I know nothing. The whole 
scene at luncheon leaves me bewildered. What did happen?” 

“Something, I’m sure. Gros must have seen something: not 
that at bottom she was reliable, but she could not have invented 
the whole thing like that, could she? And I was beginning to 
have a kind of suspicion myself, too. But when Suzanne ex- 
plained, it seemed true, didn’t it? She was never a child for 
falsehoods. And then I remembered how Gros hated Monsieur 
de Fouquier — ” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, she always hated him ever since she’s been here. She 
was always trying to poison my mind against him: as if she 
needed to! And as if a poor creature like that was able to 
influence me. She hated him so because he wanted me to part 
with her, and she knew it. He was always hoping she would 
leave.” 

“Why?” again. 

“Because she was always talking against him to me : a vicious 
circle is it not? So perhaps what Gros said today was 
merely out of spite against him. Still, the very idea is 
terrible.” 

“Why — if I may — if you will forgive my asking — why is 
the idea of Mademoiselle Suzanne and Monsieur de Fouquier 
so terrible?” 

“I will tell you in a moment. But Elise’s manner? What 
did that mean? She frightened me; she was so hard and 
bitter. I do not understand. Ah, that would be infinitely 


342 


MARY LEE 


worse: the idea of him and Elise. Fouquier one day master 
of this chateau, ruler in my house, — ah no, no, there are limits 
to what I could endure. Yet there is something with one of the 
two: I feel there is something. But which?” 

“Why either, Madame? If Mademoiselle Gros’ story about 
Suzanne is all a lie — ” 

“It might be a lie. It never does to be too hopeful; I am 
always nursing false hopes.” 

“Well, assume it’s a lie, which after what you have told me 
about Mademoiselle Gros’ spite sounds likely; well, that dis- 
poses of Suzanne; while as to Elise, except for her wild talk, 
which means nothing except that she was angry, have you the 
tiniest reason for suspecting anything of her?” 

“How comforting to hear you talk so! Somehow I feel there 
may be nothing in it after all. But if there were, how ter- 
rible!” 

“Why, Madame?” 

“Ah, you don’t know. It is de Fouquier.” 

“He is a cousin — ” 

“Only a second cousin.” 

“Because he is poor?” 

“There is that, of course: but listen, I will tell you all.” 

She looked nervously towards the door, and dropped her 
voice to a melodramatic whisper. “Listen, Mademoiselle: he 
is an enemy. There are other bad points, of course: for in- 
stance, he is vicious; you are an English girl and understand 
what I mean. That is not important; all men are more or less 
like that. Then he is a thief and a cheat. Since my dear 
husband died, he has managed all my business affairs; all 
about the estates, you know. He has what we call a power-of- 
attomey, signs all documents to do with the property, collects 
all rents and dues, sees to the leases and the farms and all 
investments and improvements. Well, he is a robber. He 
takes commissions and bribes from the tenants and dealers; 
when he invests in the funds he makes a profit for himself ; he 
falsifies all the documents he puts before me. Do you want ev- 
idence, proof? The tenants all come to me on the sly and tell 
me of his tricks. It was long before I discovered, and still 
longer before I took my courage in both hands and braved him 
with his treachery. Oh, I was prostrate with fear, but I worked 


HAPPY FAMILY 343 

myself into a temper and that helped me, and I told him in one 
word — Go!” 

“And then?” 

“Then the worst thing happened, the thing that had always 
held me back. He said that if I forced him to leave the cha- 
teau, he would publish abroad things he knew about my hus- 
band, would hold up the family name to ignominy and scorn, 
would prove to all the world that my husband possessed neither 
honesty nor honour. It was all false, or nearly all ; but I was 
frightened lest he did know something really dishonourable. 
Anyway, I knew he would pretend he did, and so carry out his 
threat. Finally I gave in, though he saw the hate in my eyes, 
he saw that! So he stayed on. He goes more carefully, that 
is, he contents himself with stealing less. It is only be- 
cause of this hold over me, through my affection for my 
dear husband’s memory, that he stays. I hate him, and he 
hates me.” 

“Will he always stay?” 

“Ah,” she replied vaguely, “that’s just it. I hope he will 
die. It is wicked of me, and I trust that the good God will par- 
don me. However, now you understand.” 

“I am .beginning to understand. One thing, though. Surely, 
Madame, if he were to marry in the family, then he could have 
no reason to injure the family name — ” 

“Mademoiselle, for a man who has so spoken to enter our 
family would be the foulest dishonour.” She drew herself up 
proudly; there was a touch of real majesty in her poor heroics. 
Then, subsiding into the customary worried-dormouse manner, 
puckering her brows, and poking forward her anxious nose: 
“If there is any danger, it must be stopped now — Oh, what a 
nightmare! We could easily manage Suzanne, but Elise would 
be terrible. We must find out for certain. Neither of them 
would tell me anything: I am only their mother! But you, that 
is different. They will talk freely to you about today, I feel 
sure they will, Suzanne for certain. You will tell me what 
they say?” 

“Oh Madame, it would be unkind to make me promise that. 
I could not break their confidences any more than I could 
yours, could I?” (Much less so, I realized, as I liked the 


344 


MARY LEE 


girls better; knowing that in the last resort I should he 
guided by preference rather than reason or even interest.) 

“Then you’ll not help me! You will leave me alone after 
all? Without husband, or friend, or companion, untrusted 
by my children” (whimper) , “alone, alone? In the short time 
since you have come I have tried to make you happy in your 
life with us, and you will not do me this least service? Why 
even poor Gros, whom I never really liked, told me all — all 
she could see.” 

The last phrase turned me from pity to pertness. “Ma- 
dame,” I said, “I am not Mademoiselle Gros. I am a friend, 
not a spy.” 

“Spy,” she repeated, a cold glint in her eyes; and I shrank 
away from her, not so much through fear of her anger as 
through shame at my own cruelty. 

“No, no, Madame,” I cried, “I did not really mean that. 
I only meant that I am so much friendlier with the girls than 
Mademoiselle Gros was, that it will be harder for me to be 
fair to them as well as to you. But I sympathize truly with 
all your troubles and anxieties. I do really, dear Madame, 
I do not say it to be polite — and I will always try to help 
you, I will help you however I can, I want to repay your 
many kindnesses.” 

“Ah, thank you, thank you,” and she squeezed my hand af- 
fectionately, with tears in her eyes. “Now I must see 
Mademoiselle Gros off.” 

I followed her out, and went upstairs to my bedroom. 

Suzanne was ensconced in my window-seat. 

“So you’ve escaped at last. I ask pardon for installing 
myself here, but I knew it was the only place where I should 
have you to myself. What has the old dear been saying?” 

“A good many things.” 

“I know. Begging you to be ‘on my side, dear Made- 
moiselle.’ Oh, don’t worry, I’ve not been listening at the 
door; I’ve always left that to Gros, who never got anything 
but earache for her pains. I know it all by heart, though. 
In brief, she wound up by asking you precisely what I am 
here to ask you myself: in this delightful family circle of the 


HAPPY FAMILY 345 

aristocracy of France, will you be on my side? You hes- 
itate: did you hesitate when she asked you?” 

“No, I said ‘No’ straight out. I said it wouldn’t be fair 
to you two for me to promise that.” 

“Well, you haven’t said ‘No’ straight out to me. Which 
means you like me better.” 

“You know it. But everybody has been so kind, I would 
rather not take a side at all.” 

“You’ll have to, my poor Mademoiselle! You have seen 
too much. You have already become more like one of the 
family in your few months here than any outsider before. 
And you are too good a friend not to be worth trying for.” 

“Too useful an ally.” 

“I mean that. Don’t be cynical. Because I like you — 
and I do enormously — it is not wrong for me to want you to 
help me, is it? Suppose there were a bad quarrel between 
Mamma and me, and you became mixed up in it, so that you 
had to choose to side with one or the other of us, which would 
it be?” 

“I don’t think anything like that would arise, and I don’t 
see what I could do anyway; but my sympathies would be 
with you.” 

'“Thank you, I am so happy. I didn’t want to make you 
promise. You would help me, wouldn’t you?” 

“Perhaps. On one condition, that you told me every- 
thing.” 

“I promise that. But just for fun, I’d like you to tell me 
beforehand what you have already guessed on your own: what, 
for instance, you thought of the pleasant little incidents at 
luncheon today. Just for fun.” 

“I might say something that would offend you.” 

“Say whatever you think, I shall like it better.” 

“It was the suddenness of what happened that took my breath 
away; I hadn’t time to ask myself what I thought. Then Made- 
moiselle Gros seemed so natural that I thought she must be 
telling the truth: I’m sorry, but it was difficult to think other- 
wise, wasn’t it?” 

“Go on.” 

“Then you denied it; but even if true I could not under- 
stand why your mother was so tragical. Then, when Elise 


346 


MARY LEE 


ibecame so wild and strange, I had a new doubt — that perhaps 
it was Elise, and not you, who was fond of Monsieur de 
Fouquier — ” 

Suzanne interrupted with a shriek of laughter: “Oh, no, 
no, no! that is a bit too good.” 

“Why was she so strange in the way she spoke about him, 
then?”, piqued. 

“Oh, that is just like her. I forgot of course that before 
today you have never seen her as she really is. Why did 
she speak so wildly? Simply and solely to shield and pro- 
tect me; to muddle old Mother, and to turn her suspicions 
and anger away from me. She cannot bear to see Mamma 
rave at me; it gives her pain, physical pain. It is the way 
she loves me. I am not worthy of her, sometimes I wish I 
was. I let her kiss me and sacrifice herself for me; but I 
can’t give her what she wants; I like her, of course, but only 
as an ordinary sister does. What happened today was a 
sham to save me.” 

“I am glad. Now I know how much she loves you, there 
can never be any danger of my going against her because of 
my promise just now to you. That is the reason I hesi- 
tated — ” 

“I see. There are gradations. You like Mamma, but 
would throw her over for me, whom you like better. You 
like me, but at a pinch would throw me over for Elise.” 

“It is not like that.” (It was.) “Anyway, I’ve done what 
you asked and told you what I thought. Now you tell me. 
Before I can help you, the first thing I have to know is, — 
well, the chief thing. Did you — was what Mademoiselle Gros 
said true?” 

“Perfectly. Poor dear Mamma! It is the hundredth time 
Emile has held my hand at table, though the first time we 
were caught. We embrace each other whenever we have the 
opportunity; in his office downstairs, in the grounds, any- 
where. Listen. He loves me. I love him. That is all that 
matters. Ah, he is so smart, so chic , so courteous, so perfect 
a lover! He adores me, worships me, would do anything to 
please me. Perhaps I don’t love him quite as much as he 
does me, though that will come: oh, soon, soon! He buys 
me presents, beautiful bracelets and things. I cannot wear 


HAPPY FAMILY 


347 


them, though, because of Mamma. Oh, but I love him. The 
joy of meeting alone in the park, being near together, embrac- 
ing, hearing his declarations, loving each other. Oh love! 
There is only love! Ah, I see you understand — ” 

I flushed, chiefly in anger: that she should dare, even 
unwittingly, to put de Fouquier in the same place as Robbie. 

“What is it?” she asked sharply, “there is something.” 
(“0 Lord,” I prayed, “send me a lie to tell her, send swiftly!”) 
To gain time: “Unless you promise, solemnly, not to be 
offended, I cannot tell you.” 

“I promise.” 

(God gracious; lie to hand.) “Well, if what I am going 
to say is not nice — in comparison — for your friend, it is 
because it is especially nice for you. I like you very very 
much, but I don’t think Monsieur de Fouquier is worthy of 
you.” 

“Why?” with a touch of curtness which in loyalty to her 
promise she strove to hide. 

“It is hard to give the reason — ” 

“Yes, I know, very hard! Because Mother made you 
promise not to. She has told you Emile is a thief and a 
cheat because rents are going down owing to bad times, 
accused him of muddling accounts which she doesn’t vaguely 
comprehend, not any more than I should. She’s been re- 
peating to you all the lies told her by dealers and farmers 
he doesn’t buy carts and ploughs and stock from, who say 
he has been bribed by those he does buy them from. I 
know all the stories. How dare she poison your mind with 
lying slanders!” 

“My reason for thinking him unworthy of you is something 
quite different. Is he a good man?” 

She looked puzzled. Then she gave a vague little laugh. 
“As good as any one else, I suppose. What do you mean 
by ‘good?’” 

“Clean-living. Is he a pure man?” 

Now she laughed uproariously: her voice jarred on me. 
“Is he a pure man? My dear Mademoiselle, of course he’s 
not. That’s a what-d’ye-call-it, a contradiction in terms, like 
saying a white nigger. Emile is like the others: keeps mis- 
tresses, goes to actress’ dressing-rooms, sees cocottes.” 


348 


MARY LEE 


“Sees them?” I repeated the silly euphemism mechani- 
cally. 

“Sleeps with them, possesses them then, if you prefer. 
Why look so wretched about it? It doesn’t worry me. It 
is the world.” Her candid pleasure in shocking me, and the 
more refined delight of superior worldly-wisdom both failed 
to annoy me as they should have done: I could only think 
of the nightmare foulness itself. 

“You say — it doesn’t worry you? You can love a man 
like that?” 

“Naturally. Better than any other kind, if there were 
another kind. The more women he has loved, the greater 
is the compliment in choosing me. If a man is a better 
schoolmaster the more experience he has had and the more 
children he has taught, then a man is a better lover the more 
experience he has had and the more women he has loved. 
That’s logic. Besides, I prefer the man of the world.” 

“Suzanne!” I cried, calling her by her Christian name for 
the first time — a twinkle in her eyes acknowledged the fact; 
I was too deadly earnest for her to dare to smile — “Suzanne, 
is it true? You are not exaggerating for fun, or to shock 
me? Do most young girls of our age believe that? Does your 
mother know you think like that? Do you realize how sick 
and wretched you are making me? Tell me it is not true!” 

“It is true, Mary. I suppose there is still a pretence 
kept up by mothers, and cures, that young girls don’t know 
how men live; it may have been so once, but now, my dear, 
we are in the Second Empire! Maybe Mamma fondly im- 
agines Elise and I are still in our cradles, and daren’t look at 
a pair of trousers: she can imagine just what she pleases 
for all I care. But I am really sorry I have made you 
miserable. What is the good of worrying about it? The 
world is like that, you must take it so — ” 

“I refuse to.” 

“You’ll have to, or else become a nun. A Protestant 
nun, how funny! Because all men are the same.” 

“They are not!” I cried with fury, visualizing Robbie and 
the Stranger. “You shall not say it.”* 

“Very well, then, I grant you I know one exception, priests 
apart, of course. He is a cousin of ours, on Mother’s side, 


HAPPY FAMILY 


349 


living down in the Gard, and a Protestant. A ridiculous 
creature — I don’t mean because he’s a Protestant — so ugly 
and gauche, and overgrown and lanky, with a pale face all 
covered with pimples. He blushes whenever you look at 
him, and can’t look a girl straight in the face. He has never 
seen a woman, oh dear no! Does something else though, I 
expect. At any rate, all nice men are the same. If it is 
a fault at all, it is Nature’s, not theirs. It is hardly a reason 
for hating Emile, that he is normal.” 

“It would be with me.” 

“Are you so sure? Suppose you loved a man, passion- 
ately, as you would — ah, you colour — and found out dial 
he saw cocottes, would you fling him over for that?” 

“It is a horrible, ridiculous supposition, so I refuse to 
discuss it. Englishmen are not like that.” 

“V raiment? Your men know how to amuse themselves 
in Paris, I fancy.” 

“It is no good your insisting; I will not believe it. But 
it will haunt me, I shall never be able to cleanse my mind. 
Stop.” 

“Certainly. But as to Emile. Now then, Mary, forget 
the last ten minutes’ talk, and believe me when I say this: 
I love him. As much as you would love a man, for all your 
different ideas on the other thing. You accept that?” 

“You say so. That is enough for me. My not thinking 
him worthy of you makes no difference to what you feel.” 

“Good. And if a man and a girl love each other, you 
agree that it is wrong for any one else to come in between 
them?” 

“Yes, if they truly love.” 

“Well, we do; passionately. I want nobody to come in 
between me and him, and I want your sympathy. I ask for 
nothing but to be left in peace. For the present, till I think 
the right moment has come, you must help me to keep my 
secret from Mamma. She will make a lot of fuss at first, 
then reconcile herself quickly to the idea, and finally approve 
our betrothal. That is, if no one else interferes — ” 

“Who? Mademoiselle Gros is going, or is gone by now. 
Some relation, perhaps, that I haven’t met?” 

“No-o. There js nobody really. I only said if. If— 


350 MARY LEE 

Elise, you know — she won’t exactly take to the idea at 
first.” Suddenly she was nervous. The moment she spoke 
of her sister, optimism and boldness seemed to leave 
her. 

“But you told me she was taking your side in the matter — ” 

“Yes, because she loves me: but for that very same reason 
she might — just at first — be a little jealous of my love for 
Emile. She guessed it, but I don’t think she was ever 
quite certain we were lovers till today: that is why it was so 
nice of her to defend me as she did, and that is why she was 
so bitter. It is funny, I know, for a sister to be jealous of 
her sister’s lover. At this very moment, for instance, she 
is probably locked in her bedroom, lying on the bed, crying 
her heart out — ■” 

Crying her heart out. 

“However, she will get over that. Poor Elise, my dear 
good sister!” 

She moved to the door. “I am so glad we have had this 
long talk. You are a good friend, Mary: you see I have 
dropped ‘Mademoiselle’ too. It will be fun at dinner to- 
night. Mother will have a face as long as a pole!” 

“Crying her heart out” was my burden all the evening. At 
dinner I had a whole side of the table to myself, facing a gay 
over-talkative Suzanne and an unruffled de Fouquier. The 
Countess wore an even more harried expression than usual. 
Elise’s place was empty. 

“I do not understand, Madame,” reported Gabrielle, her 
devoted chambermaid, “but Mademoiselle refuses to come 
down to dinner, refuses food, refuses to unlock her door.” 
Frangois confirmed. 

From the moment Suzanne had left me I had been prompted 
to go and knock at her sister’s door, to comfort her if she would 
let me. But I was unsure of my reception: she was proud 
enough to repulse me, to wish to enjoy her misery alone. As 
soon as I could slip away after dinner, I got back to my bed- 
room. There I tried “Not your business” and “Meddlesome 
Mary” and “She doesn’t want you” and “You are only the 
foreign governess” and “You only want to wallow in her 
grief.” Conscience was not convinced; instinct triumphed 


HAPPY FAMILY 351 

over sophistry and took me trembling to her door. Here I 
wavered. Pride shrank anew from a repulse. 

“Mademoiselle,” called her voice from within: I knocked, 
disingenuously. “Was that you calling?” 

“It’s six hours I have been waiting for you. Sit down, that 
settee is the most comfortable.” 

She was lying in bed, half-dressed: sore-eyed, haggard. In 
comparison, Suzanne had been hilarious, the Countess merely 
peevish. I knew with whom I “sided.” 

“Well,” she began, “I suppose they have all been at you. 
Has Fouquier?” 

“No.” 

“The other two then. Suzanne has confided to you that she 
loves that brute?” 

“But you knew it?” 

“Oh, I guessed, I guessed; but till today like a fool I hoped 
against hope. Now it is over. She loves him. She cannot 
ever again love me, save in a puny second place. Second 
place! I do not want it. I will not have it, I despise it, I 
trample on it! Love is a game for two, Mademoiselle; a 
tragedy for three. There is only love in the world, and it can 
never ever be mine. I cannot love or be loved if there is an- 
other.” 

“But she is your sister! How can you love her as you are 
saying? You cannot have the true passion of love for your 
sister.” 

“But if I have it, and know I have it, what then? Listen: 
There is no woman in the history of the world who ever loved 
any man more than I love Suzanne. ‘Cannot’ so love her, in- 
deed: but I do! Every book I have ever read, every notion 
that has ever come to me from external things tells me that love 
is a passion a woman should feel for a man only; I look into 
my heart and find it is not so. I do not explain, or defend, or 
even understand. I suppose God fashions us in different 
moulds, makes some of us to love one way and some another. 
Why not? And why should He, Who, as your Bible says, is 
Himself Love, why should He limit this chief thing in His 
universe to the one narrow relationship of man and woman? 
A woman can love her friend more purely, more nobly than 
ever any man can; and with the bond of blood in addition, her 


352 


MARY LEE 


heart can hold a love moredntimate, more tender than you will 
find in all the stories of the sexes. Am I mad to talk so? It 
is the truth. Do you understand? Do you see?” 

I was slowly learning to accept as true for others emotions 
my heart could never feel, my mind with difficulty comprehend. 

“I think I see. But how many other sisters are there who 
feel as you do? Does she?” 

“Ah no! She has never cared, never conceived how I love 
her. She is careless, indifferent, does not come to me when 
I need her : an ordinary sister. Sometimes the contrast 
between her insouciance of what I have felt and my passion- 
ate love for her has maddened me. Yet indifference, cold- 
ness, I could have borne for ever, but not that she should love 
some one else. Ah, no, no, no! Oh, my little sister, thou 
art the only creature I have ever known to love, and thou hast 
killed me. God made me to be loveless. He decided this 
cruelty from the Beginning. I had to lose her. I keep say- 
ing over and over to myself: it had to be, it had to be — ” 

“Had it to be him,?” I was crying, but had to stop her 
somehow. 

“No,” with sudden fury. “If she is to have a man, it shall 
be some one less vile than he. Have you any conception, 
Mademoiselle, of what this man is?” 

“No,” I replied, which after hearing the Countess’ version 
and then Suzanne’s, was near the truth. 

“First of all, he is a scoundrel, who for years has been using 
his position here to rob my mother; he must have pocketed 
hundreds of thousands of francs of ours. Later we will talk 
of my plans to get rid of him, in which I want you to help me: 
for I am determined to drive him out of this house. I have 
known all this, more or less, since I was twelve, but for differ- 
ent reasons I have never thought it worth a storm till now — ” 

“Till he is taking Suzanne from you.” 

“True. I know his thefts are not the reason, but they are 
my best weapon, and at the least a sufficient excuse for his 
having no handling of my affairs: I am nearly twenty-one, and 
his power-of-attorney for Mamma shall not hold for me. 
Then, he insults my father’s memory and threatens mother he 
will make public things to my father’s discredit.” 

“What kind of things?” 


HAPPY FAMILY 353 

“Oh, money-matters, politics; his private life too. Mother 
is frightened, whimpers to herself ‘I dare not.’ Then I happen 
to know a few details about this brute’s habits, and that even 
for a man — even for a man, mark you — he is’ foul. Not for 
my own sake, but for her own, she shall not be sacrificed to 
this beast. I shall stop it. And you will help me, because 
you are fond of Suzanne.” 

“No, because I am fond of you.” 

“For both of us, then. Before you came just now I had 
made up my mind, crying it out alone, that if ever a man the 
least bit worthy should want her, I would stifle my jealousy, 
sacrifice myself, and wish her well.” 

“But, Mademoiselle — you being you, and your love for your 
sister being what it is — would you ever admit that any man 
was the least bit worthy? I don’t think you believe there is 
any such man in the world.” 

“Nor is there.” 

“That is foolishness. There are as many good men in the 
world as good women; probably more.” 

“The foolishness, my poor little English girl, is yours. You 
simply do not know. You simply do not know what men are. 
They are our masters, and we are their slaves. They gorge 
themselves on the pleasures of life, and leave to us the sorrows. 
With the bourgeoisie and the peasants it is the same. The girl 
brings her little dot, for him to spend in the cafes and on gam- 
ing and vice; she brings her health for him to ruin, her self- 
respect for him to steal, her body for him to befoul. Her 
father will sell her to any filthy jaundiced old roue whom he 
thinks a good enough ‘party’ — he would be a good deal more 
careful in matching his mares and sows. If there is poverty 
to be faced or shame to be suffered, who bears the burden? 
When in one of the villages there is an unwedded peasant girl 
who gives birth to a baby, which of them ought to suffer, and 
which does? The girl is turned away from every honest door, 
trampled under: the man, who will naturally have a poor wife 
of his own, laughs, pays nothing, forgets, and seduces another. 
That is the law of the Empire, that is justice, that is ‘the way 
of the world.’ Once when I helped a poor drab out of my 
own pocket — ‘Remember your position,’ said dear Mamma. 
Bah! position. Why, in our class it is worse: we must sit at 


354 


MARY LEE 


home and simper and embroider and maintain the great 
traditions' of the lady of France, while Monsieur obeys only his 
pleasure, squanders our wealth, gambles, haunts Paris, and 
keeps his woman. We smirk and say nothing. ‘Such a happy 
marriage,’ they say. Ah, their filthy politeness, their ducking 
and bowing and fawning, picking up fans, opening doors, kiss- 
ing our hands: — every time mine is kissed, which isn’t often I 
assure you, I feel there is a hole burned in my flesh. Ah their 
beautiful woman, their adorable sex! • The moment our backs 
are turned, at once their voices become low and greasy, they 
are all winks and leers and sniggers and bawdy tales. It 
makes me vomit — ” 

“Elise!” 

“Don’t stop me, don’t dare! No other French girls are as I 
am: till now I never found any human soul whom I could tell 
what I feel : I must have my way, and you must listen. Do you 
deny it — the injustice, the cruelty and the. foulness? Oh why 
is the world so cruelly made that while women know how to 
love, men only know how to lust?” 

All through this tirade I was conscious of an instinct within 
me that answered to its bitterness, an instinct of sex-hatred for 
men as men, a savage half-sadistic hope that women would one 
day get even, would triumph, would trample! But as her 
bitterness waxed, mine waned, and the remembered male faces 
of my heart put this evil instinct to flight. 

“It is not true. I hate this wickedness with the selfsame 
horror as you, but though I know nothing of the world, I know 
down in my own soul — I know as I know God, I know as I 
know myself — that they are not all like that. God did not 
make one sex all good, the other all bad. I know there are 
men who love as purely and passionately as we do. You 
would believe it if there was one such who loved you. Suppose 
a man did love you, then what?” 

“Ah, suppose, suppose!” She savagely ripped open her 
blouse and vest, caught my hands and placed them on her bare 
body, on a poor flat cold bosom. “Ha, ha, ha!” She laughed 
like a madwoman. 

Such is the egotism of the human heart that even in that 
moment of purest pity, when I would have given my right 
hand to help her and ease her sorrow, even in that moment, 


HAPPY FAMILY 


355 


and against my will and against a loathing for myself and my 
selfishness that accompanied (but could not stifle) the joy, 
there coursed through my veins a high triumphal joy that I 
was not as she. In an involuntary gesture I threw back my 
head, and my bosom heaved with pride; a hundred half- 
glimpsed notions of delight tore through my soul. 

“Ah, suppose, suppose!” she was mocking, “how I pine for 
that dear supposed one. — No, dear, I had but one love, my lit- 
tle sister, and a man has taken her away. She was not worthy, 
but I loved her. Now I have no one, and no one will ever love 
me. It is cruel and all the universe is cruel. God is cruel to 
let the world be so: — oh, I forgot, He is a Man, and had no 
daughter, but a Son. Oh my little Suzanne that I loved — oh 
no, no, I cannot bear it!” 

She broke down utterly, and sobbed as if her heart was 
breaking. My arms were around her. Very long I held 
her, till she had sobbed some of the misery away. 

After a long while she sprang free, dried her eyes, and said 
in her calmest every-day voice: “I am hungry.” 

“Shall I go downstairs and tell them, or ring?” 

“Ring; Gabrielle will come. I don’t want the others. Be- 
fore you ring — ” 

“Yes 9 ” 

“Kiss me.” 


CHAPTER XXX: CARDBOARD 


It was odd to see normal relations resumed next day at table. 
Abnormally normal indeed, for we were all a little too much 
at our ease, a trifle too friendly and natural. There was a 
chatting and a smiling, and a veritable phrensy of cruet- 
courtesy. It was “Do have another pancake, Mamma, they are 
so good today:” “now finish up the gateau, Suzanne, I don’t 
think Louise ever made a better.” 

On the Countess’ part there was little dissimulation, for her 
anxieties had calmed down with surprising ease. She had cor- 
nered me again, first thing in the morning, for “just one word.” 

“They have been talking to you, I know. How late you 
stayed with Elise! Not for the world would I try to learn 
their confidences, but one thing as their mother it is my duty 
and right to know. Tell me that my worst fears are without 
foundation.” 

“Absolutely.” I looked her full in the face with a con- 
fidence-inspiring false honesty. After all, it was the truth; 
her worst fears, she had said plainly, were for Elise. 

Elise alone could not dissimulate her yesterday. Red eyes 
no craft, no cosmetics, can conjure away. Suzanne was bois- 
terously at ease; de Fouquier suave, unchanging. Suzanne’s 
ease did not seem artificial. There had been a fright and a 
fuss yesterday, and trouble would no doubt break out again — 
one of these days. Meanwhile, she would eat, drink and be 
merry. How I envied her “meanwhile” temperament. 

I had a bewildering mass of new impressions to digest, all 
of one day’s serving. That mother and two daughters, from 
their different angles, all saw menfolk in the same light was a 
testimony that overbore my passionate resistance. Many men, 
at least, must be as evil as they said. Frenchmen perhaps. I 
idealized my own men only the more. Similarly, while the 
lack of all friendship between mother and daughters sank into 
my mind as a fact that was probably general, I idealized my 
own mother all the more. Perhaps the Fifth Commandment is 

356 


CARDBOARD 357 

only ever perfectly obeyed by children whose parents are dead. 

Above all, I could now visualize to my heart’s content with- 
out any breach of Resolution. I melo-dramatized the in- 
trigues and troubles of this family, casting myself (of course) 
for the leading part. I had a friend to rescue from a villain, 
a family to rid of its foe; secrets and papers with which this 
man threatened my friends to discover and to use for his own 
dramatic undoing: here was a role I had been destined for from 
birth. . . . 

And here for the first time in this record I shall deviate 
from the plan of absolute completeness at which I have aimed, 
and shall pass by much in silence. The whirlpool of petty 
melodramatic intrigues into which I was now plunged — though 
no doubt more violent in my imagination than in sober fact — 
might yet form the subject of an exciting tale. But it has no 
place in this narrative, which deals with MARY LEE. The 
person who took her full share in these doings, in absorbing 
(or, if need be, in worming out) still more intimate con- 
fidences from the three Frenchwomen, in gracefully raiding 
M. de Fouquier’s quarters and hunting among his papers, in 
discovering the prattlings and preferences of the servants, in 
establishing that Gabrielle was for us and that Frangois was 
for him, in discovering that while the villainy and vileness of 
Fouquier had probably been exaggerated by two of his friends 
his noble passionate character had certainly been overstated 
by the third, in taking a leading part in all the plans and jeal- 
ousies and intrigues, which from Countess to Kitchen filled 
every person and place in this Norman mansion — this person 
was not the Mary I am chiefly concerned with, but that phan- 
tom-personality with brain and with appetites but without fears 
and without hopes, without love and without God, who, foisted 
upon me by the real Me’s foolish plan of self-effacement, for 
this year or two ruled within my body, while the real Mary, 
lulled by the ease and emptiness of that time, lay dormant 
and almost for dead. 

Thus it is that although across forty years the Bear Lawn 
days are as vivid in my heart as today’s noontide, the years in 
France I can but vaguely reconstruct. Only my brain’s mem- 
ory, the one thing that all the Marys have shared in common, 
retains them ; and what the brain but not the heart remembers 


358 


MARY LEE 


is lifeless bones, dimensionless phantoms, as unreal as other 
people. Chateau Villebecq, the house, the park, the people, 
stand before my eyes — now, as I strive to conjure them up — 
like the cardboard scenes of a stage. When, years later, I 
first went to the play, the resemblance at once assailed me. 

Hardly at all during this period, except at moments in my 
friendship with Elise, and except in prayer — and then I was no 
longer in France — was my soul awake. Not until the series 
of events in which voices from Tawborough and my soul’s 
native surroundings spoke to me again. 

To be sure, some of the escapades of that other person 
are clearer in my memory than others. The most foolish 
and fantastic is the one I remember best. Diary, rather than 
my heart, supplies the silly details. 

One day I took the opportunity offered by Monsieur de 
Fouquier’s absence on some distant farms to inspect the little 
downstairs office where he kept his records, received tenants 
and did business; also his bedroom, where the one object of 
interest — shades of Torribridge and keyhole-spied green box! 
— was the safe Elise had told me of. 

Its solid sides discouraged me. A fine role I had set my- 
self, rescuer of noble families from scheming villains. How 
fantastic we were, I and my plans. 

Then, by a stroke of luck, though at first sight it seemed 
the very reverse, de Fouquier fell ill. It was a kind of hay- 
fever which, while not serious enough (at any rate in France) 
for doctor’s aid, kept him confined to his bed. The Countess 
meanwhile was debating a day in Rouen for purchases and visits. 

“I ought to, you know. We may be away in Paris for 
months, and these things must be done. It is all so tiresome: 
the train tries me so, and I cannot travel alone. Oh, dear! 
And Elise and Suzanne both away, and Gabrielle or Pelagie 
are worse than I am on a journey, so flurried and silly. We 
have only a day or two left. I must go to Rouen tomorrow; 
but alone — ” 

I refused to take the laboured hint. 

“Wouldn’t you like to come, dear Mademoiselle?” after 
a while, pitifully. 

“I should, Madame: very much! I love Rouen. But this 
headache” — I half-closed my eyes in approved shammer’s 


CARDBOARD 


359 


fashion — “I mean I feel that if I don’t take a little rest I 
shall be quite unfit for the journey to Paris: I should be a 
burden to you rather than a help. Of course tomorrow I 
may feel better — stay, is it not Francois who sometimes ac- 
companies you?” 

“At the worst he will have to do, though between our- 
selves I never really trust him.” 

“Though” — martyr-like resignation now that my point was 
won — “if you especially want me, Madame, of course — ” 

“Would not hear of it.” 

Thus I killed two birds with one lie, freeing the house 
for a whole day of its nosy proprietor and its chief spy. 

Next morning I waited impatiently for their departure. 
From my window I watched the carriage out of sight, staring 
with superstitious zeal till the last inch of the last wheel had 
disappeared round the turn in the drive. Then I rang for 
Gabrielle. 

“Mademoiselle requires?” 

“To ask you a question. You would do anything for 
Mademoiselle Elise?”* 

“Anything, Mademoiselle. And for Mademoiselle also.” 

“Thank you, Gabrielle. In the matter I am going to talk 
about it is all one: Whatever I ask, you may take it as from 
your mistress. She sleeps badly, I think?” 

“I don’t see—” 

“Wait. You take her up a tisane , a sleeping potion, 
sometimes at night when she is in bed? How strong is 
it?” 

“As strong as Mademoiselle Elise requires. It is not well for 
it to be too strong. She sleeps half-an-hour later: with me 
it would be two little minutes. Once I could not sleep, and 
I took a little cupful: I slept for nine hours, and could not 
wake next morning. I was up late and Madame the Count- 
ess scolded. Perhaps Mademoiselle remembers?” 

“So I do. Now listen, Gabrielle. Frangois is away to- 
day with Madame. Who is taking Monsieur de Fouquier’s 
meals to his bedroom?” 

“I understand! It is I, Mademoiselle. I take him a tis- 
ane too, for his headaches. How much does Mademoiselle 
desire me to give?” 


360 


MARY LEE 


“As strong and as sure as you can without his guessing or 
noticing any after-effects. Ask me no questions. Let him 
have no suspicions. I want you to give it him now, this 
morning.” 

“Good, Mademoiselle. I take him a little meal between 
ten and eleven, and I will give it him soon after.” 

“Come and tell me the moment he has drunk it.” 

About eleven she returned. “Monsieur has drunk the tis- 
ane. I said it was good for the headache.” 

“Now wait a few minutes, then go into his room again to 
see if he is sleeping — you can pretend you left something — 
and come straight back and tell me. On your way back 
make sure that none of the other servants are about. I trust 
you. Mademoiselle Elise trusts you.” 

Ten minutes later. “He sleeps with open mouth: as 
soundly as a dormouse.” 

My heart was beating high as I slipped through his bed- 
room door, thoughtfully left ajar by Gabrielle. I had been 
hunting some pretext for my presence if he should wake and 
find me: I could invent none, and knew it would be useless 
if I could. For the first moment I dared not look at him. 
I stared craftily at the lower end of the bedclothes, then at 
the little mound made by his feet, then, very gradually, as 
though my neck (and courage) were turning on a clockwork 
spring, up the shape of his body under the quilt till at last 
I reached the open mouth of Gabrielle’s report. He was in 
a deep sleep: I gave way for a moment to the curious pleas- 
ure of possessing another human being utterly unconscious 
beneath my gaze. Small clever head, black eyebrows, sen- 
sual lips, cruel little beard: I absorbed them all with a 
photographic sureness not possible before. It was the first 
time I had seen a man asleep in bed, and I added the fact 
with zest to my collections of first-times: first Meeting, first 
marketing, first omelette, first venison; first embrace, first 
Rapture. 

But the quest, the keys. I had visualized all the prob- 
abilities, and prepared my scheme of search. Dressing-table 
and chest-of-drawers-top yielded nothing: I did not expect 
them to. I searched his clothes next, hoping to succeed 


CARDBOARD 


361 


before I should reach the most dangerous possibility: under 
the pillow. Coat was barren, waistcoat sterile. Then to 
breeches: some wifely atavism must explain the lithe speed 
with which I rummaged these, undeterred by a passing pang 
of modesty. Tobacco, coins, knife, handkerchief: sorry 
yield. As I threw the breeches back in disappointment on 
the chair, something metallic clicked: not, I fancied, either 
knife or money. Was there another pocket? Quickly I learnt 
a point in male sartorics, and the unsuspected hip-pocket gave 
up — yes, keys! In fumbling feverish haste I tried each one 
on the bunch; the safe was obdurate with all. Ill-success 
made me desperate. Panic seized me. He was awake, 
staring at me, ready to spring and strangle. He moved, he 
moved — yes, turned in his sleep, you shivering fool! Thank 
God no one saw my face in that moment of beastly fear. 

Calm again, I tried the keys elsewhere. At last, in a 
little pink soap-box in the cupboard of the dressing-table, 
I discovered what I knew was the Treasure. One large key 
and one very fine and small. It was hard breathing as the 
one opened the safe, then the other a deed-box I found at the 
back within. Greedy trembling hands snatched packets neatly 
tied with red tape and endorsed with a description in Italian, 
with which I knew he was familiar and — God bless Miss le 
Mesurier and Lord Tawborough her paymaster — I also. 

Packets of letters, incriminating documents, tell-tale scrolls! 
It was the trove, the triumph! What villainous secrets might 
they not hold? 

But when Elise and I, with a rich sense of the historic im- 
portance of the occasion, set to, behind locked doors, to 
investigate our treasure, what did we discover? Long and 
affectionate letters from M. de Fouquier’s mother to her well- 
loved son, friendly letters from his dead sister: what a meek, 
pathetic, uncriminal yield! I was moved almost to tears. 
It was we who were the criminals. And for a while our plots 
wilted. . . . 

I shall pass by much of this kind, as well as the whole 
diary-remembered general life of the Villebecq days: the 
excursions, the games, the visits, the chatterings, the mighty 
meals; the comfortable daily round in which we tasted every- 
thing — except everything, except love and God. 


CHAPTER XXXI: WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR 


The one happening of that time which was able to summon 
the Mary of this record from her torpor was outwardly the 
most vainglorious of all. I can see now that this was natural. 
For if the Villebecq puppet had a greater love of empty ease 
as of empty excitement, it was the first Mary who, from the 
dawn of consciousness, in those Bear Lawn days when the 
Holy Bible shaped her earliest consciousness, had best loved 
pomp: the pomp df words, the pomp of hate, the pomp of 
misery, the pomp of God. 

And here now came the pomp of rulers, the peculiar treas- 
ure of kings. 

Not indeed till later years did I fully realize what a unique 
event our Imperial visit was. Whether it is that parvenu 
sovereigns have to be more careful of their dignity, and can- 
not, like monarchs of ancient line, honour the hospitality of 
their subjects’ roofs; the fact is that throughout their reign 
Louis-Napoleon and Eugenie seem never to have made a 
sojourn in any private mansion of their realm. Very occa- 
sionally during their progress in the provinces, some chateau 
might be used as a halting-place for luncheon or the night in 
place of the customary palace or prefecture. Ours was one 
such case. The Countess did not hide (at any rate from us) 
that she had taken the liberty of addressing herself to the 
Emperor, begging him on his tour through Normandy to use 
her house as a halting-place: her humble excuse to His 
Majesty for her presumption was her dear father’s humble 
share in defending the First Empire, and her dear husband’s 
in founding the Second. She knew she was touching the 
right chord. To help and to repay those who had be- 
friended him or his House was with the Emperor a principle, 
nay a mania: if ingratitude be the hall-mark of princes, then 
was Louis-Napoleon most spurious and unprincely metal. 
The privilege of a day and a night at Villebecq was gra- 
ciously accorded. 


362 


363 


WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR 

If I did not appreciate to the full the exceptional character 
of the event, I none the less looked forward to it with dis- 
proportionate excitement. On the great day I should, I knew, 
be the least of the nobodies; but the idea of merely sleeping 
under the same roof with a sovereign lord and lady, seeing 
them, hearing them, filled me with servile delight. I re- 
hearsed, anticipated, literally cried aloud in my bedroom with 
the high joy of flunkeydom. Monarchs were sacred in my eyes. 
They were the Lord’s Anointed. Divinity hedged them about. 
It was a sublimated snobbery that partook of both ecstasy and 
awe. Kings went to my head like wine. 

The Chateau was all astir with preparations. The musty 
state-bedroom and neighbouring apartments in the unused wing 
were made fit for the visitors and their suite; rescued from 
moths — for moths. Workmen arrived from the villages, dec- 
orators from Caudebec and Rouen. Stable, kitchen and 
larder girded themselves for the fray. The Countess was in 
parlous state between the two conflicting voices of family 
pride and family thrift: desire to shine and desire to pare. 
“Oh dear, the expense” trod hard on “Of course we must do 
\ this.” 

In point of fact all arrangements were taken out of her 
hands by Elise and de Fouquier, who, working in alliance — for 
the family honour Elise would have worked in alliance with 
the Devil — were irresistible. There being no gentleman in the 
house, nor any male relative on good enough terms with the 
Countess to be imported for the occasion for certain duties, 
Monsieur de Fouquier almost inevitably assumed the role of 
master: he saw to the stables and carriages, arranged for the 
disposition of the men-servants and the arrival at the station, 
prepared a shoot for the Emperor. Elise’s department was 
the Empress and her suite, the furniture and the food. 

I, too, made my preparations: in the library. All I could 
pick up in anecdotes from the Countess or Elise, and all that 
nooks could tell me about our illustrious guests, I greedily 
devoured: something in the spirit of the Baedekered tourist, 
who learns up his *cathedrals and **magnificent views in ad- 
vance, equipping himself to understand what he is to enjoy. 

Wider reading made the Emperor Napoleon III dearer to 


364 


MARY LEE 


me, as the perfect type of Another Person who was precisely 
what I should have been if I had been he : the Compleat Mary. 
He was a visionary whose most outrageous splendours had 
come true, a Mary whose madness had won. 

Till now the Empress had interested me less. I began 
to learn that she too was a Woman of Destiny. 

— On the day of her birth a great cataclysm burst over 
Granada, lightning and thunder such as Spain had never seen 
or heard. 

— Above her cradle appeared that mystic sign which tells 
that: To be a Queen, you need not be born a Princess. 
That sign, shown once in many centuries, was earnest to the 
proud child that God had destined her for a crown. Folly? 
— but faith is folly come true. Dreams of greatness absorbed 
her. Leading lady was the one part she could play on the 
world’s stage: the part for which the Playwright had cast 
her. 

— One day, on a Spanish roadside, she gave charity and 
comfort to an old blind cripple. “It is you,” he cried, “you, 
whom God will reward above all other women!” 

“How? Oh tell me!” 

“He will make you a Queen.” 

— A woman, she came with her mother and sister to France. 
It befell one day that they were invited to an official dinner 
at Cognac. Among the guests was an old Abbot, skilled in 
reading ladies’ hands (and hearts) ; one who, though he 
honestly believed in his art, took care that it inspired him 
with none but pleasing prognostications. When came the 
young Eugenie’s turn to hold out her hand, the old man 
started back, half in amazement, half in fear. The guests 
who were watching started too, since they knew him for a 
sophisticated worldling, immune from all surprise. 

“What is it?” cried Eugenie. 

“Senora — I see in your hand — ” 

“What then, Abbot? Quick, tell me.” 

“A — crown.” 

(Now the great Duke of Ossuna, Grandee of Spain, His 
Most Catholic Majesty’s Ambassador to the French Republic, 
was rumoured to have longings, to nourish intentions. . . . 


WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR 365 

It would be a magnificent marriage for her, friends said.) 

“A Duchess’ crown?” she cried. 

“No. One more brilliant and resplendent.” 

“Oh speak, sir, speak! What crown is it you see? It 
cannot be a Queen’s.” 

“No, senora, an Empress’s .” 

— Folly! Austria and Russia were the world’s toll of 
Emperors: portents were mocking her. Still, suppose Des- 
tiny were reserving her some faery fate? Suppose — and she 
said “No” to the Duke of Ossuna. Suppose this comic “Prince- 
President” of the new French Republic, this poor parrot- 
faced Louis-Napoleon, this parody of his great uncle — sup- 
pose he carried the parody just one act further? (One never 
knows.) Once introduced to Sick Poll-Parrot through friends 
in Paris, she lost no single opportunity of meeting him — 
especially by chance. Ambition is no idler, and toils at all 
his plans. She used humility and gave admiring glances, 
employed her unmatchable beauty and gave alluring ones; 
listened attractively to his every word, wrote devoted letters 
of support. Soon whisperings reached her: the nation too was 
beginning to say Suppose? After all, should not a Bonaparte 
don royaller headgear than republican top hat? (Mad hopes 
grew bolder.) Yet the step was no easy one: to re-establish 
Empire in Republican France was still a conspirator’s dream. 

On December the Second the dream came true: multitudes 
acclaimed the Third Napoleon. Not least Eugenie, for he 
had now that crown to bestow. Soon she triumphed, and 
forced her way into his heart. He loved her. An Emperor 
loved her. But love is little and marriage much. There, on 
the very threshold of glory, lay a new danger. She faced it 
boldly. Desperate in his amorous intent — one night that 
they chanced to be spending under the same roof as Imperial 
host and humble guest — he made seen his wish. 

“Senora,” in a voice plaintive with passion, “which is the 
way to your bedroom?” 

“Sire,” she replied, “it lies through a well-lighted church.” 

What vice and ambition had achieved, virtue thus com- 
pleted. Her purity won the crown, the crown won her purity. 
Through the bannered luminous nave of Notre Dame de Paris 


366 


MARY LEE 


he made his way to her bedchamber, and she hers to the girl’s 
wild dream that had come true. Together they scaled the 
highest peaks of human glory. 

The morning of the arrival our Villebecq party assembled 
in good time on the little wayside platform. The Countess 
was fussy, full of absurd anxieties; Suzanne in the gayest 
spirits, Elise calm, de Fouquier debonair. There were guests 
from neighbouring houses, Frangois with assistants to cope 
with the Imperial luggage, and a crowd of peasants outside 
the barrier. During a long wait we kept straining ears and 
eyes for a sign of the expected train: I could not help think- 
ing of Tawborough on the far-off day when Satan Came. 

“Here it is!” cried Suzanne. 

The Countess had a last convulsive movement of agony: 
“I do pray that nothing may go wrong.” 

A stumpy little gentleman in tight-fitting clothes and an 
enormous top-hat waddled awkwardly out of the carriage, 
and turned to help down a showy and beautiful lady. 

Short fat legs, a long highly-tailored body; a sallow leaden 
complexion with two rouged-looking spots in the middle of 
each cheek; an aquiline nose, with waxen surface; a goatee 
of hair on the chin looking like an artificial tuft gummed to 
the skin; heavy drooping eyelids, and glassy eyes through 
which he stared as through a window. 

This was my Man of Destiny. This marionette in wax. 
The Thing had movement but no life. 

I started when I heard the Countess saying: “This is our 
English friend, Miss Lee.” I bowed low, confused with self- 
consciousness, and with guilt for the thoughts I had been 
thinking. 

“Good-day, Miss Lee,” I heard him saying in slow meas- 
ured English, “you do not get such glorious weather in your 
country!” At the moment of shaking hands he looked me 
straight in the eyes with a smile of dumbfounding charm. 
The grey eyes lit up, solved the riddle, showed that Waxworks 
had a human heart. Except in my Grandmother, I never saw 
such infectious kindliness in a look. “No,” he was saying, 
“I know your London fogs.” 


WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR 367 

“I don’t know London, Sir — ” I was beginning, by way 
of exculpation. 

“Calumny!” cried the fine lady. “Why up in Scotland we 
used to get week after week of glorious weather. It is all 
calumny, our French talk about the English climate.” 

Active, supple, fresh, full of pride and health, she was an 
extreme contrast to the man. Her eyes, unlike his, were 
frank and honest: unlike his, they were hard. Instead of 
dreamy dishonest kindness, I saw greedy consciousness of her 
beauty and prestige. Her nostrils quivered as she drank in 
our homage. She loved nothing save herself and her pleas- 
ures. She was gorgeously dressed. She was bold, beauti- 
ful, forthright, hard: the complete incarnation of our 
Brethren “worldly.” She possessed the Empire of France, 
but not the Kingdom of Heaven. 

What glory — not vicarious only — to be taking part in that 
informal procession along the country roads! In the old 
coronetted family coach sat the sovereigns, with the Countess 
and Monsieur de Fouquier; the suite, the guests, the two 
girls and I followed in four other carriages. Dinner that 
night was a Sardanapalan affair: gay lights and gorgeous 
dresses, wealth and wine, power and pride. The menu was 
imperial ; my diary, always an amply dietetic diary, records 
it in full. Once or twice I thought of Aunt Jael’s birthday 
banquet, and of Jesus Christ on Calvary, who died to save 
these dolls. 

When my eyes were not on my plate, they were chiefly on 
the Emperor. Half the time he was lost in dreams, dead 
to the physical world around him, infinities away. When 
the Countess or another addressed him, for a moment the 
leaden eyes lit up, and a gentle, almost womanly smile played 
on the slow lips; he spoke a few pointed yet diffident words, 
then relapsed abruptly into his dreams. Not that the Coun- 
tess noticed this abruptness, which resembled her own. She 
had her own absorbing reflections as hostess of this trium- 
phant evening — this expensive evening. Every new dish 
filled her with an exquisite conflict of emotions. The guests 
were dominated by the laughing Empress; her majestic 
beauty and her sparkling talk. I remember no single word 


368 


MARY LEE 


of her conversation, I only remember that it glittered. Noth- 
ing in her really attracted me. I admired the beauty and the 
brilliance, but they seemed to be separate entities, having 
nothing to do with her as a woman, as a soul. Had she a 
soul? 

One odd thing I noticed: the Emperor’s coldness towards 
de Fouquier. Knowing the imperial gratitude towards all 
who had helped him I marvelled accordingly, and fell to 
seeking a reason. Perhaps in reality de Fouquier never had 
helped Napoleon’s cause, perhaps his game during the Coup 
d’Etat had been a double one, running with the Bonapartist 
hare and hunting with the Burgrave or Republican hounds? 
At a later date I discovered that my surmise was exact. And 
Napoleon knew. Fouquier, noting his manner, knew that he 
knew, and hated him accordingly. I fancied I saw plans 
of revenge forming in the smooth obsequious face. Once 
again Reason, who mocked at Fancy, was in the wrong. 

Next morning, while the gentlemen went shooting, the four 
of us accompanied Eugenie and the ladies of her suite on a 
drive to neighbouring scenes. 

Elise had said, “Jumieges looks best in the very early 
morning.” 

“Good!” cried the Empress, “we will go before the dew 
has vanished. You are sure it will not inconvenience you, 
my dear Countess?” 

A rhetorical question, and a selfish one. The whole house- 
hold rose perforce at an unearthly hour of the night. I 
partly forgave her for the reward our early visit earned. In 
the brightening mist that follows dawn, in the fragrant expect- 
ant silence, the majestic ruin loomed in a mystery that noon- 
tide could never have lent. 

All day I kept as near the Empress as I could, learning that 
the queenly principle is to do exactly what you like: to be 
haughty and indifferent to your ladies one moment, gushing 
and over-familiar the next: to demand servile trembling and 
unseemly giggling turn by turn: to allow all whims to yourself 
and none to others. Was not her whole career compounded 
of similar contrasts? Her dream of becoming an Empress 
was wild romantic folly: the steps she took to make it come 


WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR 369 

true were calculating, of the earth earthy. “Such another as 
you,” propounded Conscience. 

Loyal smiles and humble gratitude gave godspeed to the 
illustrious pair. Among the servants the gratitude varied: 
where Napoleon had passed — the Countess quizzed them all — 
tips were imperial. The one or two Eugenie had given were 
almost as small as I (not yet an Empress) would have be- 
stowed. 

“Five francs for Antoinette,” repeated the Countess un- 
wearyingly: “it overcomes me. Five francs from an Empress! 
If it had been but ten — ” 


CHAPTER XXXII: PAREE! 


Except for the cab-drives between quay and station at 
Southampton and Havre, and three half-days in Rouen, I 
had seen no town whatsoever outside North Devon. Paree/ 
Paree/ my heart kept crying. 

Now “Pariss” was a poor flat word, and “Pary” too, as the 
French pronounce it; but by dropping the English S while 
Englishifying the French vowel I formed a darling word 
which my heart could caress and unwearyingly repeat, thus 
giving fullest vent to the delight it anticipated. It was 
Paree! Paree! all the way in the train and on the magical 
twilight drive from St. Lazare Station (gloomy hole enough) 
down the great boulevards, past the looming Madeleine, 
along the Rue Royale, across the great Concord Place, and 
over the sheeny river to the family “hotel” in the Faubourg. 
Such a glorious city, such princely streets and monuments I 
had never pictured, never been able to picture. Paree! 
Paree ! 

There were walks and drives with Elise and Suzanne, visits 
to museums, galleries, churches; though from all theatres and 
concerts, following the solemn promise to my Grandmother, 
I was debarred. The brilliant new boulevards were my 
chief interest. It was often a morbid interest: to see the 
crowds, laughing or careworn, hideous deformities, vile pock- 
marked faces, hunger jostling with gluttony; everywhere hurry- 
ing gesticulating Mammon. I hated them, loathed them with 
a physical loathing that held something of puritanism and 
patriotism combined: I longed for England, for goodness, for 
the ugly unworldliness and cleanness of the Saints. Now and 
then a gentle-faced little boy (for the little girls were for the 
most part precocious over-dressed apers of the women they 
would become) lit up my heart with a moment’s delight: I 
would turn round and stare as he passed, hoping he too would 
turn and stare. 


370 


PAREE! 


371 

Our most frequent pilgrimage was to the Great Exhibition, a 
faery wilderness of gardens and fountains, of pavilions, 
pagodas and pinnacles. We witnessed the Imperial distribu- 
tion of the prizes in the Great Hall. On a dais sat the Em- 
peror — my Emperor: Man of Destiny, Parrot-Face, Waxworks, 
Long-Body, the prince of the kings of the earth — surrounded by 
kings, with the Sultan on his right hand, and pride every- 
where. When the little Prince Imperial advanced to his 
father with the prize for workmen’s dwellings, wild applause 
searched the very roof of the glass palace of Industry. The 
Emperor smiled, smiled dismally I thought, for the eyes were 
sad, wretched. (“Queretaro, Queretaro.” His brain rang like 
a beaten bell. He had learnt the news today, though none of 
his subjects yet knew. While we saw a Sovereign adulated 
by the world, he saw another Sovereign — his client king — 
— and a Mexican court-yard, and a firing party. Did he see 
also the selfsame day three years ahead: himself, and the 
preening Sultan at his right hand, prisoners both in exile 
and disgrace?) 

Kings, everywhere Kings. For this was the year, more 
truly than Talleyrand’s, when your carriage could not move 
through the streets of Paris because they were blocked with 
Kings. I do not think I missed a single royal visit — except 
the King of the Belgians’, as I was seedy that day, The girls, 
even the Countess, made fun of my courtly mania: I did not 
care, I studied the newspapers, and made sure of the best 
view-points in each procession. Then I would stand for 
hours, in patient royalism, fully rewarded by the instant’s 
pomp and the dear glance at the Lord’s Anointed. There was 
the barbarous Tsar, with the Caesarevitch and the young 
Grand Duke, his brother. Old Prussia with his big minister, 
one Count von Bismarck-Schoenhausen, who liked France — so 
well that he visited it again. Austrian Franz- Josef and the ill- 
fated Empress. Our own hearty Prince of Wales. Lesser 
truck: Sweden, Wurtemberg, Portugal, Greece; with the two 
Louis of Bavaria, the one that loved Lola Montes and the other 
that loved Wagner. 

So the quick scenes shifted, with the actors princes all: till 
my mind was raced through by glittering equipages and the 
remembered faces of the great. 


MARY LEE 


372 

Greatest of all were their Hosts, Eagle and his Wife, though 
not too great to remember friends, or to invite our Villebecq 
household (with dependent) to a Tuileries dance. It was not 
a state-ball, but one of the Empress’s “Mondays,” an intimate 
little function for some thirty or forty guests. My orgilous 
delight was chilled by a swift reflection: I could not dance. 

“Well,” said the Countess, “you must learn.” 

I saw Grandmother’s gentle eyes, appealing, mute in horror. 
My Mother came to me with a pleading No. Poor kept-in- 
his-place Resolution dared: What would Jesus do? I sent 
them packing, closed my eyes, barred up my heart. “Yes, 
Madame, and at once; there is no time to lose.” I spoke so 
sharply that the poor lady started back in amaze. 

Not that I danced very much at the ball, or cared to; I was 
the guest of an Empress, and that sufficed me. In a wide hall, 
the Salon of the First Consul, we stood ranged in double row. 
Eugenie, in a lovely robe of blue satin, of pure simplicity, 
without pattern or frill, swept into the room, preceded by 
sumptuous Officers of the Household, and followed by her 
ladies. Like the Emperor his soldiers, she passed us in re- 
view. To each a few gracious words. Yet what right had 
she to be so condescending? Who was she, anyway? Why 
should a few words from her lips be deemed our highest 
earthly privilege? It was vulgar resentment that some 
woman else was in a lordlier position than I; it was envy; it 
was democracy. I was ashamed of my unguestly thoughts 
when she stopped at me and said in beautiful English: “This 
is not worth Jumieges, do you think?” 

The ball began. Most of the ladies were dressed far more 
gorgeously than the Empress. I remember a tall woman (a 
duchess, confided the Countess), gowned in shimmering black 
velvet flounced with gold guipure; another in crimson velvet 
sewn with great silver daffodils; another in white satin-tulle 
covered by a light overwork of golden feathers. Everywhere 
lace, fans, tiaras, jewels. How plain I was beside them! I 
despised their half-revealed bosoms, their selfish painted faces, 
their sensual lips. The old ways and the Meeting would keep 
appearing before me, and Grandmother, and the Lord: I 
knew that they were right, and these things wrong. Here was 
I, a saved young woman, one of the Lord’s elected children — 


PAREE! 


373 


tricked out like a Jezebel, with flowers in my hair* The old 
hymn I had so often repeated to Aunt Jael forced its way into 
my memory, compelled me to repeat it to myself, verse by 
remorseless verse: 

Shall the Christian maiden wear 
Flowers or jewels in her hair, 

When the blood-stained crown of thorn 
On her Saviour’s brow was borne? 

Here in this King’s palace I revelled, my bosom swelling with 
vanity, — 

Shall the Christian maiden’s breast 
Swell beneath the broidered vest. 

When the scarlet robe of shame 
Girt her Saviour’s tortured frame? 

And I was dancing. The first moments showed me that our 
Brethren-hatred was good hatred, and Elise’s description of 
men a just description. They pressed insinuatingly, their 
contact sickened me. 0 Lord, Lord, to what fleshliness was 
I sinking? — 

Shall the Christian maiden’s feet 
Earth’s unhallowed measures beat, 

While beneath the Cross’s load 
Sank the suffering Son of God? 

It was nightmare. Hatred of all this luxury and glare and 
godlessness flooded me in so physical and overwhelming a 
fashion that I was near to fainting. I turned from the fleshly 
men, the hard horrible women: Vanity, Vanity. There was 
more Resolution in that night’s distaste than a thousand sealed 
envelopes. I pleaded headache, and refused to dance again. 
Elise was no comfort : she was indifferent tonight, not rebellious 
like me. “What did I tell you?” was the best she could do. 

I could watch them no longer, and suddenly left the ball- 
room, to wander about the palace rooms, deliberately turn- 
ing my thoughts to the old history of this place that I might 
forget the present loathing. Whether or no much reading be 
a weariness to the flesh, to me it was a resource unfailing: I 
could take refuge from the day’s trouble in reviewing the 
glory of yesterday. As for the Tuileries Palace, I would 
wager that no other living English girl .could have told her- 


374 


MARY LEE 


self its tale much more fully: summoned more surely the 
long procession of its grey and glittering dead. . . . 

Catherine de Medici, first builder of the palace, warned by 
an astrologer that it would end in tragedy and flames. Louis 
XIV, the Sun King, lording it in Carrousel fetes. Marie- 
Antoinette, Austrian woman, brought here with her poor 
husband from Versailles, brought back again a prisoner 
after Varennes. June ’92, first invasion of the palace by the 
mob : threats, insults and obscene shouts. September ’92, 
when the vile mob invaded, sent Louis and Marie to Con- 
ciergerie prison, came here to yell, steal, sack, blaspheme, 
and murder, hacking to pieces the old faithful servants of 
the crown, slashing with knives the dying and the doctors 
attending to the dying: prostitutes ransacked the Queen’s 
wardrobes and wallowed, loathsomely, in her bed, kicking up 
their legs in democratic glee. Revolutionaries, Girondins, 
Mountainists, with Prince Robespierre — mean, savage and 
pure. The flat-haired Corsican youth. From here he went 
forth to be crowned, from here the Pope of Rome went forth 
to crown him. Here reigned the pomp and splendour of the 
Empire; hither entered Josephine in triumph and hence slunk 
out in disgrace; hither came Marie-Louise (Austrian woman 
too) in pomp processional, hence she fled a fugitive. These 
walls stared at the coming and going of the Hundred Days; 
at bellied Eighteenth Louis and Charles the Tenth his brother, 
last king of Ancient France; at Louis-Philippe of pear- 
shaped head and Brethering umbrella; at the wild mobs of 
’48 (my birth year), pillaging anew. Phrensy of peoples, 
folly of Kings: change and change about. Each new mon- 
arch had sagely wagged his head: “The others, ha ha! — I 
know the mistakes they made — I will profit by their example 
— my sojourn here is eternal — these barns are big, but I will 
build greater.” 

With my Emperor permanence had come at last. Him 
no fears could shake: not by divine right nor mere par- 
liaments nor yet by plebiscite alone had he reached the 
palace, but by dreams, which alone come true. Here he had 
entered in a state which mocked his poor predecessors; here 
on the balcony he had stood, while the crowd in the gardens 
madly acclaimed him, and the Marshal St. Arnaud proclaimed 


PAREE! 375 

the Second Empire. Here in a pomp and luxury before 
unknown he had reigned and gloried. From these doors, 
at the Depart for Italy, he had sallied forth; to sally forth 
again to Notre-Dame, for the Te-Deum for Solferino, 
through roads strewn with flowers and adoration. He had 
made Paris the capital of capitals, himself the King of Kings, 
this Palace the centre of the universe. . . . 

One morning a letter reached the Countess from Lord Taw- 
borough. He was at an hotel in Paris; might he take the 
liberty of calling? 

My heart beat fast with joyful expectation. 

He came, once and again. We went out together, sometimes 
with the others, oftenmost alone — on long walks in the Paris 
streets or excursions to Versailles and the environs. He was 
an oasis in this city- wilderness of evil faces: the sight of this 
Englishman, the clean-featured noble face, the fairy godfather 
to whom I owed all the rich experiences of the past year, 
Rachel’s little boy, gave me a peaceful pleasure which after 
my hectic ambitions and intrigues was like dew after rain. 
The interest of his conversation, the sense of worth and supe- 
riority (to me) he imparted cleared my foolish brain and 
cooled my insane pride. “You’d call this gush if it were 
Suzanne who thought it!” whispered Satan. “Yes Sir,” I re- 
plied, “but Tawborough is not Fouquier” — Every woman’s 
reply. Intellect, character, kindness, purity, race — it was a 
banquet of pure delight. 

I tried to analyse for myself the reasons for the exhilaration 
which filled me in his presence, and in no other presence; not 
in Grandmother’s, though I had loved her always: not in 
Elise’s, though I loved her now. I could unravel no reasons, 
only ponder on the facts: (1) that his was the only face I knew 
which gave me a positive, physical joy, which filled me with 
tenderness and wonder. I would have fed on his face unceas- 
ingly if I had dared; (2) that in his presence alone the con- 
sciousness of self, of omnipresent Mary, left me, and I felt free, 
unconscious, unburdened, happy: if when he was at hand I 
stopped suddenly and asked myself “And Eternity?” I could 
laugh, and flout the bogey; (3) I apprehended that these emo- 
tions were reciprocal, and this was the chief delight of all. 


376 


MARY LEE 


Yet, I argued, this was not Love. Love was Robbie. Love 
was Christmas-Night, one day to be renewed. Still, what 
lesser word than love could describe the admiration, the grat- 
itude, the fluttering tenderness, the pure exultant affection I 
felt?’ So in my diary I called it love (with a small 1) and 
kept the capital for Robbie. 


CHAPTER XXXIII: I BECOME AN HEIRESS 


Soon after our return to Normandy I found on my break- 
fast-plate an envelope in my Grandmother’s handwriting. As 
a rule her letters came in small square envelopes of the or- 
dinary English shape and size. This one was long, plastered 
with extra stamps, notable-looking, parchmenty. Perhaps a 
consignment of tracts. 

I found inside a heavy parchment document, covered with 
impressive copper-plate, together with a letter from my Grand- 
mother, written not on her usual cream-coloured note-paper, 
but on whiter sheets with a thick black edging. 

Could it be Aunt Jael? The first line reassured (?) me. 
It was Great-Uncle John, so rarely heard of, though known to 
me for ever as my Mother’s “dear Uncle” and good man. It 
did not need my special greed and cunning to surmise rightly 
why his Will was sent to me. Inordinate hope — changing, as 
I rushed through my Grandmother’s letter, into radiant 
certainty — stifled regret. (Regret would have been affectation, 
whispered Satan.) Without reading through the letter I stuffed 
the papers into the envelope and devoured my breakfast; 
preventing myself thinking till it should be over. 

Suzanne had been watching me. “You have had good news 
I think?” 

“Yes,” I replied, unawares. 

“I’m glad, because I noticed a black-rimmed envelope, and 
thought perhaps it might be bad.” 

In my boudoir I settled down at my leisure, luxuriously to 
learn the best. Grandmother’s letter was one of the longest 
I ever had from her. As I read she came near me, became 
suddenly a part of the present. For an instant I saw her face, 
in the flesh. But the self that saw her was another Mary — 
Mary of Bear Lawn, full of fear and floggings, surrounded by 
God and Aunt Jael; not that Villebecq puppet. I could feel 
the selves changing place within me — and changing back. . . 

377 


378 


MARY LEE 


All the old prayers, the immemorial pleadings. Love the 
Lord only, and His service. Dedicate this wealth to Him. 
Lay it not up where moth and rust do corrupt. His love is the 
only true riches. There is only His love, my dearie. . . . 

Grandmother dear! Noblest of all the Saints, now high 
among the Saints in Heaven. How much? I wondered. 

I found a little summary made by the lawyer on half a sheet 
of notepaper, which spared my wading through the uncommaed 
intricacies of the Will itself. # 

Briefly: there was £400 for Grandmother, £200 for Aunt 
Jael, £100 each for Aunt Martha, Albert, and certain charities. 
All the rest — some £10,000, or about £500 a year — was left to 
me: me, Mary. 

At first I could only think in exultant exclamation marks. 
Ten thousand Pounds! Five-hun-dred-pounds-a-year ! (So- 
norously mouthed.) Wealth, freedom, power! 

I was my own mistress now. I could do any defiance, yet 
have my bread. Aunt Jael, urged the feeble voice of some- 
far-away Self. “Who is Aunt Jael?” asked Villebecq Mary: 
“Ah yes, to be sure, I remember.” “I pay for the Child’s 
music” — cry that two years ago could have rallied me to any 
revenge — “I” now stifled with a bland Pourquoi? How silly it 
seemed, how silly Revenge always is. 

No, I would buy a house of my own — the ambition which 
life in the Chateau, and other dreamings, had made my chief 
one now — and I would live there with Robbie for ever. The 
hunger, the longing possessed me more mournfully, more pas- 
sionately than for long months. I flung myself on the bed and 
covered the pillow with kisses. . . . 

I would help the Saints, play Lady Bountiful to the Lord, 
send much money for the heathen, succour more than one needy 
labourer in the Lord’s vineyard abroad. “Sops,” sneered Con- 
science. “Go and work in the Lord’s vineyard yourself. All 
that thou hast — ” 

How furious Uncle Simeon would be, I reflected pleasurably. 
The Will provided that if I died all my share was to go (after 
use by Grandmother during the remainder of her lifetime) to 
Aunt Martha and Albert. So my life, which he loathed, was 
all that stood between Simeon Greeber and the money that he 


379 


I BECOME AN HEIRESS 

so much loved. Unkindest cut: I had plentiful cuts to repay. 
And for him alone, of Child Mary’s enemies my present self 
nourished hatred : for I knew he was an enemy still. 

Could he do anything? 

Next morning’s post brought the only letter he ever wrote 
me: — 


No. 1, The Quay, 
Torribridge, N. Devon. 
November 7th, 1867 A. D. 

Dear Young Niece, — 

Often though one asks for your news — seeks to learn of your material 
and spiritual state — it has never before been one’s sad pleasure to 
address you a letter in person. Two reasons have guided me today, 
after much prayer, to take this step. One is to express our sympathy — 
Martha’s and one’s own — with you in the loss of your Great-Uncle, who, 
though you never saw him in the flesh, must yet have been very near to 
you because of your knowledge of his goodness to your poor suffering 
Mother, now a saint in Heaven! Martha would have written herself, 
but she is not too well just now: the Lord is visiting her with bodily 
affliction. The other reason is to give oneself the opportunity of saying 
how glad one is to learn of the worldly good fortune poor dear Mr. 
Vickary’s death has brought you. May you use it to His glory! If — one 
will be frank — one had any pangs of husbandly and fatherly jealousy 
at the lesser good fortune of one’s dear wife and son, they were quickly 
o’ercome. Prayer has won one’s heart from worship of the Golden Calf, 
and made one able to be with you in spirit in this new privilege and 
duty the Lord has conferred upon you. May you live long to use it in 
His Service is one’s humble prayer! 

One hears of you often thro’ Martha and your dear Grandmother. 
One rejoices to know that, in that Papist land, you still find the reading 
of His Word the chief of all your joys. One hears that you appreciate 
most that “Book of the heart, and heart of the book,” viz, the Psalms. 
Yes, one can find there words of succour for any circumstances, any 
frame of mind. The Psalms are prophetic of His sufferings and glory,, 
notably the 22nd, opening with His cup of agony when abandoned for 
our sins; like Isaiah 53 they point only to Christ (how one loves veases; 
5 and 6 for the peace they have brought one) — Christ revealed; by 
His Word and Spirit! 

Poor dear Mr. Vickary, how quickly gone! One knew him not at all, 
but one felt it keenly. One believes he was naturally a good and 
lovable character — but how one longed to know something much moi£ 
than that! One’s own little son is giving one great hope and comfort. 
Though cursed with many faults, alas, of both character and temper; 
and humble as intellectually he may be; yet he reads the Word con- 
tinually, and speaks to one freely on the subject, so that one can. 
form a fair opinion of his spiritual state. 


380 


MARY LEE 


Dear Martha and Albert send their love, in which one is glad, with 
prayerful sincerity, to join. One has been dwelling much lately on Phil- 
ippians iv, 8. 

Accept one’s best Wishes, 

Simeon Greeber. 

P.S. LAY NOT UP FOR YOURSELVES TREASURES UPON 
EARTH. (St. Matt, vi, 19.) 

I was uneasy, but what could he do? 

The family learned my good news, hoped only it did not 
mean my leaving them. To do so had indeed never crossed 
my mind ; for my plans, house-dreamings and the rest were, as 
always, watertight: in the compartment of daydreams, and hav- 
ing no connection with my immediate doings. Even had I 
wanted to go away, I was as penniless as before until my 
twenty-first birthday should arrive. 

The first two or three days after the Windfall I gave only 
these surface-thinkings a hearing. All the time — even from 
the very second the news entered my brain — Other Self was 
murmuring, though for a foolish day or two I fought her down. 
Then, one silent night, she broke loose, crashed through the 
silly web of pride, greed, and heathen-helping, and rained 
at Snob-Mary (whom “I” loathed this night till I could have 
spat in my loathing) the hard questions that only the fools 
who dare not face them say are not worth facing. 

Are you not commoner, meaner, lower, since thisf money? 

Is not the Safety you now possess utterly undeserved, self- 
ish, fatal to your soul? 

You have your wealth: how will God get even? 

£500 is a goodly treasure: but what will it serve you 500 
years from now? 

Will gold protect you from Eternity? 

Are you happier, any happier at all? 

Life was a search for the happiness that is the secret of 
the world. The key was not of Gold. 


CHAPTER XXXIV: I BECOME A DAUGHTER 


We had arranged to spend a certain day in Rouen, but 
when the day came I did not feel well: I was tired and in- 
clined to be feverish. The first sign of a coming illness, to 
which bad dreams and bad conscience (Money) were each 
contributing. I asked to be left at home. The Countess 
and the two girls went away by the early train; de Fouquier 
also was to be absent for a whole day, visiting some distant 
farms. I was alone. 

I was restless, and could not settle down to read or even 
to think. A ride might cheer me up, I decided, so I went 
down to the stables and ordered the horse I always rode. 
Then I went upstairs and put on my riding-habit. By the 
time I was downstairs again, I felt tired and disinclined. I 
sent the horse away, and threw myself down in a chair in the 
great dining-room, without changing back into my ordinary 
clothes. I still had the whip in my hand. 

I cannot have been more than half awake, for though I 
had a dim notion of Gabrielle retreating through the curtains 
and depositing a gentleman in the room, I remember nothing 
in the way of announcement or explanation. Some one was 
there: who or how or why I did not know. I took in that 
he was tall, dressed like a gentleman, and silver-haired; but 
at his face, for some vaguely-felt reason of half-awakeness 
or self-consciousness or fear, I could not look. 

“Good day, Sir,” I said, shunning his eyes, “pray won’t you 
sit down.” Naturally I spoke in French. 

“Thank you, perhaps I will,” he replied in languid and 
exquisite English, utterly ignoring the fact that I had spoken 
in French. “I am happy to meet a fellow-countrywoman in 
this Papist land.” 

The ancient familiar jargon flung at me so unexpectedly, 
and in a voice that matched it so ill, roused me to immediate 
hostility. And was my French so bad that he must needs 
assume I was English? Or did he know? But it was my own 

381 


382 


MARY LEE 


annoyance at his Christian phrasing that annoyed me most. 
Though, to be sure, the voice was not a Christian’s. Who 
could he be? 

I looked more boldly, though still avoiding his eyes. It 
was impossible to guess his age. The fresh skin and beard- 
less chin were a boy’s, the carriage suggested a man in the 
prime of life, the headful of silvery-white denoted venerable 
age. The features were small, patrician, womanish; the 
mouth especially being too small for a man’s, while full of 
pride and authority and race. A lordly and effeminate grand 
seigneur. 

The eyes, I knew, were the key to the mysterious face, and 
at these I dared not look. 

All these impressions must have been gathered in a second 
of time, for he seemed to be still in the same sentence. 

“■ — Yes, I am happy to meet you, for I feel you are the 
Lord’s.” The languid voice fashioned such a mockery of our 
Brethren speech that for a moment I could have railed at 
him for Antichrist. Then I felt quickly that I was foolish, 
and let him go on. “Assure me that you are His, Mademoi- 
selle, pray assure me.” 

“I may be,” I said sharply, “hut plain ‘Miss’ is good 
enough for me, s’il vous plait, monsieur .” 

“May-be, may-be!” he sneered, for I had roused his spite. 
“ ‘May-be’ is the cry of souls in torment, the watchword of 
the damned. Beware, young woman, of your woman’s filthy 
pride. It is the snare of men, the source of all wickedness. 
Woman, subtle of heart and impudent of face, who hath cast 
down many wounded, whose house is the way to Hell — ” 

It was a madman. He had forgotten me, he had forgotten 
himself. He was hypnotizing himself with his own words; 
his eyes were wild and unseeing. I looked into them now. 
God, they were not his eyes, but my own, just as I saw them 
when I stared in a mirror. I was bewitched, and could only 
go on staring, staring. The mystical excitement seized me, 
the sense of physical existence departed, more surely than 
ever before the imminent immanent moment was upon me, 
I had discovered the World, I was kissing the eyes, my soul 
moved forward to reach him — . I found myself stumbling 
up from my chair in his direction, and with my ordinary 


I BECOME A DAUGHTER 


383 


eyes saw him still standing there, still intoning away, still 
almost unconscious of everything — but not completely, for he 
knew his power over me. 

Suddenly, in the middle of a phrase, he stopped. I broke 
in quickly, in sanest worldliest fashion. 

“I should be glad to know, Sir,” I said coldly, “why in an 
ordinary sensible house, which is neither yours nor mine, 
you are favouring me with these extraordinary speeches. 
You have not the advantage of my acquaintance, nor I of yours. 
Is it Madame the Countess de Florian you called to see?’* 

“Ah true, true!” — there was no change of voice or manner, 
but a change (I felt) of person inside him — “Yes: I am an 
old friend of the family; I came over from Rouen, through 
which I was passing, and learn from the servant that by a 
piece of ill-fortune the family are in Rouen today. Here is 
my card.” 

I took it, without looking at it. 

“I am an English friend who lives here,” I said, “a kind 
of companion to the girls.” 

“Indeed, indeed ! As I was saying” — and impatient of 
the length of this irrelevant interruption of his ravings, he 
half-closed his eyes again and resumed the tirade of piety 
and denunciation and woman-hating and hell-fire. He was 
mad. He was not mad. All the world was mad. It was not 
happening. 

I was working myself up to face again the experience of 
his eyes, when my glance lighted accidentally on the visit- 
ing card in my hand. 

The news entered my soul before my brain. It was not 
news; I had known it all the time. I stared at the printed 
letters one by one, not able to understand them, understand- 
ing them all too well. They stood up from the card, assumed 
hideous shapes. It was a nightmare. It was not true. I 
clutched at the side of the bed — no, it was the dining-room 
table against which I was leaning. There were the chair, 
the sideboards, the armour; there was he. 

In my visions of this meeting I had always taken him 
unawares and now it was I who had been surprised. The 
second part of my dreams at any rate should not fail. I 
gripped the whip more tightly. 


MARY LEE 


384 

In crowding tumult every word of my Grandmother’s old 
narration filled my heart and brain. I was ten years old 
again. She called me upstairs to her bedroom, pulled 
out the brown tin box from under the bed, drew forth the 
packet. Each phrase of each pitiful letter was marshalled 
by my inhuman memory before my eyes. Bitch, Bitch, he called 
her Bitch. As I looked at the white halo-crowned vile beauti- 
ful face before me, as he raved away, I did not listen: one 
by one I went over the ill-deeds and the cruel words I had 
to his account, feverishly I visualized my mother’s suffering 
and sorrow till I was at the white heat for avenging them. 
The hardest part was to keep calm, sane: to keep my will 
in control of my emotions, which were bursting through all 
the ancient bonds of self-restraint, urging me tempestuously 
to await no perfectly planned moment, but to wound him 
now. 

Somehow I kept my voice steady. I interrupted; and, 
following my plan, veered him back into his maniacal mi- 
sogyny. 

“You have a poor opinion of our sex indeed. What, Sir, 
if you have a daughter of your own?” 

“I busy myself not with my children of the flesh, but 
only with my children of the spirit.” 

He was impossibly real, impossibly like Grandmother’s 
story. He meant what he said; there was no hypocrisy. I 
was proud of the handsome face, had a lunatic longing for 
the eyes. 

I could kiss him, kill him. 

“I had a child once, they tell me — at least her mother said 
it was mine — ” 

Now! cried Melodrama, Now! cried the Plan, and the 
Mary I had always visualized for this moment achieved herself 
as — suddenly, savagely — I cut him across the face with my 
whip. 

He was an old man now, and fell to the ground helplessly. 
I lashed at him in a blind fury of revenge and righteousness, 
shouting horrible words of which I hardly knew the meaning. 
He tried to rise, but I struck him down again. “Bitch, Bitch, 
you called her Bitch. You swine, God is paying you back.” 


I BECOME A DAUGHTER 385 

I knelt down suddenly beside him: “Father, will you kiss 
me?” 

I have a distant notion of de Fouquier somewhere near me, 
of fading away into a world vaguer and colder than 
dreams. . . . 

There is a door that leads to happiness. Revenge cannot 
force the lock. 


CHAPTER XXXV: WAY OF A SERPENT UPON A 
ROCK 


Everywhere there was a cold and mistlike darkness. Shapes 
emerged. Billows of whiter mist loomed nearer through the 
darkness, came from every corner of utmost space. The dark 
heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; the 
white billows poured in on every side, engulphed me, choked 
me with icy fumes. Was I dead, and awake in cold Eternity? 

The mists turned into molten suns who scorched my body 
till only the soul was left, naked against the burning heat. 

I died again, to wake once more in a new causeless Eter- 
nity of terror. Always there was a menace, everywhere a fear. 
I knew I was dreaming, in a dream within a dream; this 
gave me no ease, as I knew that dreams were true. Rather 
were the pain, the terror, the pursuit, more real, more awful, 
than waking ills. My agony of soul was unsearchable; there 
was no God even to cry to, for soon I was God, in His loneliness 
without help or escape, without beginning and without end. 

Human shapes, with a horror and a power to do me evil far 
beyond their real stature in my past, pursued, reached, as- 
sailed, slew me. Always I died, and always I woke to a new 
universe of more sickening fear. Aunt Jael, Benamuckee — 
every evil face and evil fact from the old days of the life I 
had once dreamt on the earth, invested now with infinite power 
and unimaginable horror — menaced me, dogged my piteous 
flight along the unending pathway of Eternity. Uncle Sim- 
eon was there. The most horrible fear of my childhood, he 
was the most horrible now: an Evil more ghastly than human 
memory or imagination. ‘Twelve years ago, twelve years 
ago!” I whispered. He saw, rushed to the door, while I rushed 
madlier across the roof-room to my attic. This time he would 
outrun me. No, I was in time. I tore through the aperture 
and just had time, shivering in fright, to huddle down upon 
the floor before the key turned and he was in upon me, over 
me, peering at me with unpitying cruelty and hate. I lay 

386 


WAY OF A SERPENT UPON A ROCK 387 

numbly staring at the yellow-pale face, the savage blue eyes, 
the wet thin lips, the honey-coloured beard — now tinged with 
grey — just as it would be now in “real” life, I had enough 
reason in my dream to be able (in a frightening lapse from 
feeling to thought) to reflect. The face came nearer, gleamed 
physically its hate, seemed to breathe at me. 

“Oh, God!” I prayed wildly, “Where am I? Tell me, oh 
tell me! If a dream, of thy pity awaken me: if life after 
death, slay me for ever!” 

Now he was Simeon Greeber the poisoner; he was pouring 
something into a phial, he took a tiny white tablet — fear made 
my dream-eyes keen — and dissolved it in the liquid. Some one 
was propping me up, his eyes were gleaming with hope, he 
lifted the glass to my lips — 

“Poisoner!” I shrieked and dashed the glass away. I put my 
hands swiftly to my eyes, and they were open. My bed, the 
Chateau Villebecq bedroom, half-drawn blinds, a hundred im- 
pressions instantaneously reached me. I was awake again, 
and in this world ; my chin and neck were wet with the spilled 
liquid, and he was there, the this-world Uncle Simeon, hastily 
picking up bits of glass. He was real, and I knew it; he looked 
up and knew that I knew. 

Could I sham him into doubting it? My senses had not 
properly returned, and flog my brain as I would, in a frantic 
second of endeavour, she could not tell me how or why I was 
here in bed, how or why Uncle Simeon was here beside me. 

I smiled, assumed my frankest stare, and shammed that I 
was dreaming again. (Unless it was, after all, a dream un- 
nameably real, a dream within a dream.) Staring at him 
fixedly as though I did not see him — and for a half-moment I 
saw doubt in his eyes — “Madam,” I cried, “some one has tried 
to poison me. Find him, find him!” 

Deceived or no, he was not losing his chance. “One will 
find him soon, one will find him,” he whispered soothingly, 
the while preparing another potion below the level of the bed: 
“Meanwhile, dearie, drink something to make you better.” 
Swiftly he seized me, grasped my neck as in a vice, and forced 
the glass against my lips. 

Somehow I got my mouth away, somehow I managed to 
shriek, to shriek till I seemed to be losing my senses again. In 


388 


MARY LEE 


dream-fashion shapes crowded round me once more: Elise and 
Suzanne — and the Stranger. Whether real shapes or not, they 
were Friends. I was saved. All would be well. And I fell 
into a dreamless sleep. 

To this day I do not know with absolute sureness whether 
these moments were dream or waking life. Little is the dif- 
ference, for is not the one as real, or as unreal, as the other? 


CHAPTER XXXVI: THE STRANGER WITHIN 
THE GATES 


I awoke to find Lord Tawborough by my bedside, with 
Elise for chaperone. 

The latter soon pieced things together for me. Gabrielle 
had found me in a feverish half-unconscious state on the 
dining-room floor. She had got me upstairs, and hastily sent to 
Caudebec for the doctor, who pronounced me to be in a danger- 
ous fever. Nobody seemed to connect my illness in any way 
with Monsieur Trams’ visit. In the anxiety and fuss upon the 
family’s return, Gabrielle had indeed forgotten even to mention 
it — till next morning, when his crumpled visiting card was 
found on the dining-room floor. Nor had any one seen him 
leave the house or grounds. (Mauled and aching, his hands 
before his scarred and kissed and bleeding face; crawling, 
slinking away.) My illness had soon become dangerous; it 
was doubted whether I could live, and Elise had sent urgent 
word to England. My Grandmother had written that she was, 
alas, too frail and old to come, but that she was sending her son- 
in-law, my Uncle, instead; she prayed the Lord in His mercy 
to spare me. Monsieur Greeber had arrived — an odd little 
man, very grateful for his reception — and had sat with me 
devotedly, all day and half the night, through the worst days, 
days when I was racked by the wildest fever, torn by ravings 
and prayers, nightmare cries and supplications, and had indeed 
been with me alone, in a brief period when the doctor and 
nurse were absent, at the moment in which I reached the turn- 
ing-point and for the first time recovered consciousness. I 
had railed at Monsieur Greeber like a madwoman, suddenly 
become conscious, and then as suddenly fallen into a calm 
unfevered sleep. He had hoped to have stayed to see me 
well on the road to recovery, but word reaching him the very 
same day that his own son in England was taken ill, he had 
left hurriedly. The same critical day Lord Tawborough had 
reached the house, summoned by the news Elise had urgently 
sent him. 


38 9 


390 


MARY LEE 


Meanwhile, in Cardboard- World, big events had ripened. 
Elise talked feverishly. I listened with mild interest. Who 
was Fouquier, anyway, and what did it all matter? 

I learnt how the Countess had had a mighty quarrel with 
him, and how at last, after so many years, she had screwed 
up her courage to the point of deciding to dispense with him, 
though not yet to the point of telling him of her decision. 

“And Suzanne?” I asked. “If she loves him as she did 
before, she may take it ill.” 

“I don’t know. For months I have seen nothing to make 
me think so. Anyway, so far we have told her nothing. She 
knows nothing.” 

“And when the thunderbolt descends?” 

“I am hopeful. The honour of the family. . . .” 

The days of my convalescence held a pleasure that banished 
the nightmare past. Almost the whole day the Stranger was 
at my bedside. Hour after hour I lay gazing at the dear 
distinguished face. I soon found that they all thought me less 
wide-awake and nimble-minded than I was, so I stared with 
impunity, imparting a touch of vacancy to my stare: a shield- 
and-buckler vacancy. I lay bathed in a new delicious senti- 
mentality, worshipping him, drinking him in, idealizing him. 
He was my Mother’s little boy; he had loved her; he had 
given me the first novel I had ever read, had shaped my first 
apprehension of nature’s beauty. To him I owed my educa- 
tion, my social raising, my life of splendour here. For Eng- 
land he had kissed me Good-bye in the moment I had left her. 
It w 7 as a tender exultant joy to watch his face. He was hardly 
older than the Stranger of the Torribridge hillside morning 
ten years ago; though his hair was turning grey, a proud and 
princely grey. There was the same beloved countenance, 
manly yet gentle, clean, clear-cut, slightly sharp-featured; 
the same eyes, quizzical-whimsical, yet holding the kindness of 
all the world; the same intelligence, culture, race; the same 
maddening purity and nobleness; the same Call to Worship. 
With something added, not in him, but in me who regarded 
him: a knowledge that he was a man, that he was dear and 
desirable beyond other men, that nearness would be very beau- 
tiful. Sometimes, swiftly, sentimentality would flood and 


391 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

transfigure my normal consciousness. My heart would pass 
through the last Gate of Tenderness, approach the portals of 
Love. Then in a crowding mystical moment the Vision 
changed, and it was Robbie: Robbie and I, we were kissing 
each other, radiantly; Christmas Night of long ago had be- 
come the present once again. The Vision would fade, and 
leave me staring at the Stranger, liking him, needing him, yet 
with my heart too full of the Vision to be able to wonder what 
loving him might mean. 

Love, in its only and ultimate meaning, in the sense of 
the mystery of this world, of Jordan morning, of the Holy 
Ghost, could only reach me, I saw once again, through one 
human being on earth, Robbie of Christmas Night. Who, 
where, how, what was he now? 

My spirit would flag a little, and sink from the uttermost 
heights. Once below the level of that very highest heaven 
of all, Love the Madness passed, and the saner, warmer 
adoration for the Stranger returned. 

What were his feelings? I was not sure. The kindness 
of his eyes, what was it? A kindness like that must be for 
every one, must hold a universal message. No, must be for 
one person alone, could be lighted only by the human soul 
he loved. Who? Had he his Robbie-girl? There were mo- 
ments when I knew he loved me. More often and more surely, 
I felt there was a sentiment and a sympathy akin to my own, 
but quieter, nearer earth, less likely to stray up the steep 
Robbie-closed path to LOVE. 

Yet I would play with fire, and, on the level where Robbie 
was not remembered, visualize myself loved by, wooed by, 
married by the Stranger. Swiftly I was on a lower level 
still, where Snob-Mary could wallow. To become a Peeress! 
“Not so very absurd,” others might think. “After all, they 
were cousins, his mother and her father were first cousins, 
you know — though she was, of course, brought up rather 
differently, with some Nonconformist (sic) relations on her 
mother’s side. However, blood will tell!” I knew better, 
knew that common Bear Lawn Mary was the real Me. Or 
was it? Except for the kinship of memory, how was she me 
at all? She was but a poor remembered Mary: what the I of 
today would be to the person inhabiting this body ten years 


392 


MARY LEE 


ahead. There was no such thing as permanence of person- 
ality, there was no such thing as anybody. Ever-different 
souls inhabit the same body; memory alone connects them 
with their predecessors, instinct alone makes them work for 
their successors. I must work for mine. I must try to 
deserve well of the coming Marys, seek to marry them well. 
Lady Tawborough! 

His talk, far beyond Elise’s even, was a high delight. He 
spoke of life, books, travels; of the South, which he knew 
the best, of the seven cities of Italy, the seven hills of Rome. 
Of his plans and hopes: how he would soon end his wander- 
ing and go back to Devonshire for good. Of his schemes for 
his estates, the work he hoped to do in the country, the book 
he might write, the position he might win for himself in the 
House of Lords. Always there was something he did not 
say, seemed to shrink from saying. Was it that he thought 
I was fond of him and did not like to wound me by telling 
me there was some one else: his girl-Robbie? Or was it — ? 

Those convalescent weeks rank among the gentlest mem- 
ories of my life. My French friends were kind to me beyond 
deserts or hopes. I was restored to health in the daily com- 
panionship of a Vision of goodness and delight. My chief 
Revenge had been achieved. The nightmare life was away 
beyond the nightmare illness. Hate was now for ever behind 
me. I was a tenderer Mary. 


CHAPTER XXXVII: WAY OF A SHIP IN THE 
MIDST OF THE SEA 


Villebecq Mademoiselle, who would play melodrama, was 
achieving much less in her chosen way of business than still 
slumbering Bear Lawn Mary, who had played at life. And 
now, in these last days (as they were to prove) of the Ville- 
becq existence as I had known it, she was to shew herself 
quite unequal to a role of garish prominence she was sud- 
denly called upon to play. She quitted the stage, unaccom- 
panied by plaudits or pity, and died of an empty heart. 

The circumstances were these. 

The first day or so after I left my bedroom I spent in 
writing up my Diary: making the notes on which the last 
three chapters are based. 

The Countess’ arrangments as to de Fouquier’s successor 
were completed; the gentleman in question, a Monsieur de 
Beaurepaire, was ready to take up his duties in three days’ 
time. De Fouquier knew nothing. 

The day before the morning fixed upon for his dismissal 
I was sitting alone in the library, writing in my Diary. The 
door opened, I drew the blotting-paper protectively over 
the page. It was Monsieur de Fouquier, and he knew: knew 
everything. There was a look in his eyes — a look I have 
only seen once besides, many years later, on the face of a 
Russian nobleman, the night before he shot himself in the 
bedroom of a St. Petersburgh hotel — of wolfish desperation; 
desperate and wolfish as only the eyes of a selfish luxurious 
* well-fed man can become. His voice, however, was still suave, 
unpleasantly suave. 

“Ah, good day, Mademoiselle. I have come to say Good- 
bye. I am glad to have had the pleasure of knowing you 
so well.” 

“I am sorry,” I replied (I think sincerely), “though, de- 
spite the long time I have been here, I could hardly agree 
with you that we have known each other well. We have so 
little to do with each other.” 


393 


394 


MARY LEE 

“ Directly , perhaps,” he said meaningly. “ De vive voix, it 
it true, you have given me but sparingly of your thoughts and 
views. I have been able to learn to appreciate them, never- 
theless, thanks to an occasional perusal of that charming 
book before you now. Oh, I read your language if I do not 
speak it. Vot vud Jesus do? Vot vud Jesus do ?” — in mock- 
ing horrible English. 

Shame flooded me, and hate. This monster, who for 
months had been peering into the secret places of my soul! 

“Vat vud Jesus do?” he was repeating, with a sneer again 
and again. 

“Stop!” I cried. “I will not listen to blasphemy.” 

“You will listen awhile to me,” and he stood against the 
door, barring possible egress. “You have had a large share 
in the filthy campaign of lies and intrigues which has at 
last succeeded in turning me out of this house. I shall at 
least make sure that you are bundled out yourself. Before 
I go, this very day, I am going to supply this amiable and 
grateful family with a brief account of yourself and who 
you really are, — your dirty little shopkeeper relations in 
England, your common sailor of a grandfather, your vulgar 
canting old grandmother, your boozing aunt. Then a few 
words about your dear father, and your frankness with 
Madame la Comtesse on the subject of his recent visit: how 
odd that he did not live with your mother, how odd the 
little hints Monsieur Greeber was so good as to give me as to 
whether he was your dear father at all, how odd the charm 
of bastardy — ” 

“Monsieur,” I broke in, “if ever I have a husband, he 
shall exact full payment for this. Go on insulting me, how- 
ever. It will achieve nothing, it leaves me cold.” 

“A husband, ah yes — dear ‘R’ ! How tender your many 
references to him. Strange though it should seem, this world 
is small, and suppose so seemingly irrelevant an event as 
my forced departure from this house in France should have 
some effect on dear ‘R’ in England? There is my dear 
friend Monsieur Greeber. Don’t alarm yourself, there’s a 
brave girl — ” 

“Get out!” I cried. 

“When I have done. There are still other results of your 


WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA 395 

handiwork to consider. The family’s name, for instance? 
It will benefit, you think, from my departure? Monsieur le 
Comte — his honourable doings. Mademoiselle Elise — her 
passion for her sister — so pure, so natural, so sisterly — ■” 

“Ten seconds, and if you’re not gone, I shall shriek for 
help.” I rose, pale with anger. 

He came forward, seized me, glued his mouth to mine. 

It was no stage-play now. In a strange flooding moment 
Mary the lover of Robbie reconquered the fortress of my 
soul. Thirty years later I can summon the odd physical- 
spiritual sensation as the selves did battle within me. Mine 
eyes beheld love, and this nightmare moment was its negation. 

I only record the moment, shutting the spirit’s memory as 
I write; think of it I will not, cannot. I struggled, for a 
second or two, without avail, wild with a nameless sickening 
fear; prayed in shame and desperation “Lord, deliver me: 
Robbie, forgive!” Then with a desperate movement I freed 
my face from the foul impact, and gave as heartrending a 
shriek as was ever achieved by virgin in distress. 

He made swiftly to free himself, but now I held him tight, 
clipped him to me with such a new savagery and strength 
that although he knee’d and wriggled brutally he could not 
struggle free. Footsteps were approaching — I knew whose — 
and I managed, during one more second of supreme endeavour 
and complex anticipatory delight, to hold on. 

Lord Tawborough entered, took him by the scruff of the 
neck, wrenched him away from me, and flung him out of 
the room. 

I liked Lord Tawborough. 

“Les hommes!” commented Elise. “So that’s the end of 
friend Fouquier.” 

It was. That same day he disappeared from the Chateau 
for ever. 

It seemed as though the house had been cleansed of a foul 
atmosphere. The Countess, though already worrying about 
troubles and dangers ahead, seemed for the first time mis- 
tress in her own house. 

“Let him do his worst,” said Elise, “it isn’t very much.” 

Only Suzanne was nowhere about, seen by none of us. At 
dinner that night she was not present. Her bedroom door 


396 


MARY LEE 


was locked, and she would reply to no one, admit no one. 

Next day we burst open the door, found the room empty. 
Suzanne had fled. 

It was the end. 

It was the end of the Chateau Villebecq I had known, the 
end of the easeful days of bright comfort shot through with 
gay melodrama, the end of the Interlude. For two other 
women, mother and sister, it was the end for ever of this 
world’s happiness; for the other herself too, as I learned 
long afterwards. 

Madame de Florian crumpled up under the blow. All 
she had lived for — the honour of her name, the worldly 
success of her daughters — was lost. All her employment — 
the day-to-day strivings towards these two ends — was gone. 
In one night she seemed to shrivel up; to become at a stroke 
five times more wizened, more futile, more plaintive than 
before. Life, perhaps, had never had much to give her; 
now it held nothing. Her days were divided between regrets 
and self-reproachings, complaints, servant-scoldings and tears. 

To me alone she confided her woe. I was the one kind 
soul she had ever known; Heaven had meant me to be her 
daughter! I gave her nothing from my soul — except pity, 
poor pity, and even this soon lost its first spontaneity; be- 
came conscious, conscientious — yet always I could see she 
was getting what I did not give: a sense of boundless sym- 
pathy and affection. In every mood and every mope she came 
to me for comfort, and — though I knew full well in my 
actress-heart that I was giving her nothing at all, no real 
love, no healing sympathy, only the shams and simulacra 
of these, served up with pity, luxurious self-comforting pity — 
always I saw that my shadow was her substance. She re- 
turned me a boundless gratitude; pathetic, delicious to my 
palate, cruelly undeserved. 

“Ah Mademoiselle, there are not many like you! My life 
is over. I am a poor old woman alone. Only you under- 
stand. Stay with me, dear Mademoiselle.” 

And I did. 

Elise took to her room, asked no comfort, refused what 


WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA 397 

I proffered, railed at me for being the real cause of her 
losing her dear one, spent long days alone in her bedroom 
weeping, and would not be comforted. After a few weeks, 
when no news came of Suzanne, she took really ill. When 
sufficiently recovered to travel, she went for a long stay in 
the South of France, Gabrielle accompanying her. At leav- 
ing she refused to see me, even to say Good-bye. 

The new steward did not live in the house, now a deserted 
place, damp and cold in the long winter that followed, in- 
habited by memories, haunted by fugitive joys. Through 
the long days and nights, echoes of happiness would ring 
aloud through the emptiness, and sometimes I heard Suzanne’s 
laugh on the staircase or the quick feet of friendly approaches 
in the corridor. Now that joy had taken flight, the great 
house became, like Bear Lawn of old, an atmosphere I under- 
stood and responded to. It is thus that I have chiefly re- 
membered it ever since, it is thus that I remember it now. 

I had no plans except — vaguely ‘‘soon” — to go back to 
Devonshire for good. When I mooted this to the Countess, 
her pleadings were so pitiful, so flattering, that I registered 
then and there the vow that I would stay as long as she 
wanted me. It was the one return I could give for the kindness 
I had received, the one way I could display loyalty to the 
good past of yesterday: quite a good way also, maybe, of 
laying up for myself treasure in Heaven. 

So for many long and lonely months I stayed. Except the 
Countess I saw no one. I was as lonely as in the far-away days 
of my childhood, and soon it was to my childhood that 1 
returned. Imperceptibly, just as a year or two back the Bear 
Lawn life had vanished, the present glory of Villebecq taking 
its place, so now it was Villebecq (though my body remained 
there) that vanished, and Bear Lawn again that took its place. 
In bed at night, if my soul was thinking of Mary, the old din- 
ing-room or the cold blue attic formed the physical setting in 
which, as a person detached, I always saw her. In the dark- 
ness my bed would always revert to the Bear Lawn position, 
with the wall facing me as I lay on my right side, although in 
reality in the Villebecq room it was behind me. Even awake 
and in the day-time, the articles of furniture in my boudoir 
often changed as I watched them to the furniture of the old 


MARY LEE 


398 

dining-room, the sense came over me that Villebecq was but a 
dream I had dreamt one night at Tawborough, a dream from 
which I was at this moment waking up, a dream that already 
I could not properly remember. . . . But — Bear Lawn too was 
a dream — I had only dreamt that I was Mary. Who was I? 
Was I any one? Oh, terror, was I God Himself? With a cry 
I fell on to my knees. . . . The fear passed, it was the 
Villebecq boudoir, I was rising awkwardly to my feet. 
(Had anybody seen?) 

Even in normal and placid moods, the first two years 
of my life in France soon appeared as a faded memory, 
the remembrance of something I had been told rather than 
something I had lived myself. The whole mosaic of new 
glittering impressions, storm and stage-play, ease and luxury 
and chatter and intrigue, seemed something insubstantial and 
unlived: something very distant, too, for — by a puzzling ex- 
perience not usual in the young — I could only see clearly the 
days that lay farther away. The Villebecq life had been a 
thin shadow of life, the Villebecq drama a puppet drama, 
the Villebecq Me a pale and partial Me. There was a slow 
battle spread over weeks in which Bear-Lawn Mary fought 
her way back to chief place within me. I remember the odd 
physical moment — sitting on my bed at three o’clock one 
morning, still undressed — in which she won the victory and in 
which Mary the gossiper, Mary the worldling, Mary the 
Fouquier-fighter faded like a wraith into the tomb of my 
sub-conscious self. 

The older habits of mind returned. Now that there was 
no one to talk to, I talked, as of old, to myself. There was 
no present to occupy me, so I returned to my pasts and my 
futures. There were differences, of course, and develop- 
ments: I was older, a little farther away from madness 
(which is sanity), a little nearer the world, a little farther 
from the Lord. My past was seen in worldlier, if not truer, 
perspective; my ambitions were more concrete. The old 
habits were fainter, and the old fears. Hope had gained 
appreciably on Despair. At ten I had dwelt morbidly on my 
few happinesses, knowing that they would be paid for: God 
gets even. Now, at twenty, happier days had tilted the bal- 
ance; I dwelt cheerfully on the manifold unhappinesses of 


WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA 399 

my life, feeling sure they would all be recompensed me: 
Christ gets even. 

Not but what Gloom made a good fight for his old suprem- 
acy. After all, Eternity was on his side. 

And the Rapture never returned. I would pray sometimes 
for hours, beg for one instant’s flowing through my heart 
of Taw-water and the Holy Ghost. HE did not come. 

There was a reason. I knew the reason, though for a 
long time I dared not formulate it, even in prayer, even alone 
with myself, or more utterly alone — with God. 

Coming from the innermost place of my being, gaining 
at last my conscious brain and soul, and soon possessing 
them utterly, was the knowledge that my only way to ultimate 
happiness lay not through religion, but through ROBBIE. 

For many days and nights the agonized struggle fought 
itself out within me : God’s love revealing Itself directly, 
God Immanent, versus God’s Love revealing itself in human 
shape, God-in-Robbie: memories of Jordan Morning, my 
honeymoon with God, versus hopes of earthly ecstacy, my 
honeymoon with him. 

I have never wished, even if I were able, to fit in this 
story of my life with wise men’s theories of human conduct 
and development. But the psychologist or the modern nov- 
elist would I think label this struggle in my soul as the 
turning-battle between Environment and Heredity, in which 
the massed beliefs of my holy upbringing contended against 
the call of my woman’s blood and the needs of my woman’s 
heart. 

At last — when I had given God His last chance, telling 
Him in an agony of passionate prayer that if He would send 
me but once again the perfect miracle-moment of Jordan 
it would quench for ever within me all need of human love — 
and when no answer came — I knew that the battle was over. 
Robbie had won. 

Had won in my heart. But what were the chances that I 
should taste the fruits of his victory, that the love I had 
declared for would, in this actual physical world, one day 
be mine? 

I faced the whole question, “dispassionately.” 

What were the facts? Years ago, a sentimental and un- 


400 


MARY LEE 


happy child had, in a moment of crude (though not con- 
temptible) romantic fervour, grown morbidly .fond of an- 
other child, and he of her. They had vowed together to seek 
to perpetuate their experience when away from each other 
by mutual self-suggestion, especially on that particular night 
of every year when the childish emotion had culminated. 
It was all very pretty, quite pathetic too in its way, but what 
else? 

What else? Everything. These were the cowardly pic- 
turings of Common-Sense: Heart put them swiftly to flight. 
The only realities are the realities of the spirit, and Robbie 
in the visions I now had, not only every Christmas, but every 
day — near every hour — was a warm divine reality in my 
soul. He was with me, kissing my face. Where the human 
body of the living twenty-one-year-old Robbie might be I 
did not know — though I constructed for myself a hundred 
different stories as to his whereabouts and doings — but that 
his spirit was with me whenever mine was with him I knew 
in the authentic uttermost way, beyond all knowledge and 
reason, in which I had once known God. Sometimes the whole 
night through his Presence enveloped me, his face was mir- 
rored in my soul. Yet always the ultimate Rapture evaded 
me; I would reach the mystical moment when the lips of 
the vision-Robbie upon mine were changing into the dear 
desired lips of the real-life Robbie, when vision-reality and 
this-world-reality were merging magically into one — then 
always, on the threshold of realization, the Vision faded, and 
I was left empty and desolate and cold. 

The mere physical longing, though less intense than the 
spiritual, was newer and more baffling: for I understood my 
body much less well than my soul. Oh for him to put his 
arms around me, crush me tenderly to him, while I should 
clasp him to my breast and pour out my heart upon him! 
I would kiss the miserable pillow (and say it was his throat) 
and clasp it and cover it with tears. When bearing-point 
was passed, I would burst into half-hysterical prayer: Send 
him now, oh Lord Jesus, or banish the tormenting vision from 
my eyes! — the while I would savagely stop the eyes and ears 
of my spirit, until God’s answer came, and for a space the 
hunger passed away. 


WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA 401 

Doubt trod hard upon Desire. Fool-Mary as always! 
You loved the little boy then, and he you. It was a child’s 
moment, gracious for the child’s sorrow that it eased, but 
over at once and for ever. Love comes not back again. 
All the rest, all these fantastic years of mystical repeatal 
are but the wraiths of your own disordered imagination. 
The Presence is a phantom presence of your own creating. 

“It is no phantom,” I replied. “If anything in God’s uni- 
verse is real, that is real.” 

“Real to him? For if not, the presence is not real at all.” 

“It is real to him.” 

“Are you so sure? You are quite, quite certain: that at 
the same moment in which you possess his Presence, he is 
possessing yours?” 

“Yes, I know it. God tells me so.” 

“But where is real Robbie? Why does he not come to 
you?” 

“He is coming soon.” 

And with valiant words I chased Doubt away, knowing 
him for the destroyer of everything that he encompasses, 
who can make things that are true untrue, just as Faith, his 
enemy, can make of things that are not things that are. Faith 
makes facts, not facts faith. If you believe that Robbie is 
with you, he is with you. If you doubt his presence, you 
destroy it. 

If the Sun and Moon should doubt 
They’d immediately go out. 

Balked of his actual physical presence in one way I would 
seek it in another. Memory would essay where Visualization 
had at the ultimate instant always failed, and would guide 
me moment by moment through the whole of the old Torri- 
bridge time, from the first glimpse, and Uncle Simeon’s in- 
troduction, through egg-day and fight-day to the supreme 
midnight hour; at last I found I could reconstruct our happi- 
ness together so vividly that it was actually happening again . 
Eternity had turned backwards, the past had become the 
living present, I was sore from the cruel flogging, I was 
twelve-year-old Mary again, and Robbie’s arms were around 
me. Then Memory in his turn failed me; in a swift physical 


402 


MARY LEE 


way I felt inside me the years scuttling back into their place: 
it was the old eternal present, and the ideal unconsummated, 
and the loneliness. 

Then doubt and fear and need would all together assail 
me, pressing in unison the chief question. When he is 
real to you, are you as real to him? The answer was always 
Yes, and the answer was always No. In either case I fell 
to sorrowing for him: if he wanted me, because of his 
need; if he did not know he wanted me, because of his need 
also. And I would forget myself altogether, and think only 
of his need of love. How could I give him most, give my- 
self to him most? How could I discover and lay at his feet 
the wild unimagined sacrifices for which my heart was ach- 
ing? I knew I could give him everything, live for him pnly, 
destroy my own happiness for him, give him my heart, my 
life, my hope of everlasting death. Ah, for his sake I would 
take God’s nameless gift of immortality, if He would but set 
Robbie free, grant him the eternal sleep. I would do the 
far greater thing than die for him; for him I would live 
for ever. 

Ah, no, no, no! — Robbie asleep for ever, and me for ever 
alive. Ah, no, oh loving Heavenly Father, that alone I 
could not bear. 

In two months I filled three large new volumes of Diary : all 
with Robbie. 

Much of it was in the form of a series of letters between 
us. The first letter was addressed from me to him: a trem- 
ulous self-conscious composition, asking him to excuse my 
taking the liberty of writing, feeling certain that he would 
doubtless remember who I was, recalling that we had been 
rather good friends, nest-ce-pas?, in that short period when 
we had been together as children, etc., etc. I tortured my- 
self for a whole fortnight awaiting, in fear and delicious 
hope, his reply. This I composed — as I wanted to compose 
it: friendly, enthusiastically reminiscent, but not (being his 
first letter) so affectionate as to damage my scheme of a 
long crescendo of ever more affectionate letters to come. 
Then my reply, and his reply, till soon the floodgates were 
opened. 


WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA 403 

“Oh, Robbie (at last I wrote). Tell me you are the same Robbie; 
that now, as a man, you are not some strange man I should not know, 
but that you have the same loving heart, only more passionate and 
tender than before; the same loving arms, only manlier and even more 
ready to embrace me; the same loving boy’s face, only transfigured, 
developed, ennobled by the long lonely years of the love you have 
given me. Tell me that in body as well as spirit you are coming 
soon, to love me for ever as I do you.” 

He replied: 

“Post haste I write, because I must speak back to you. I got your 
letter this morning, and ever since then have been full of it, and full 
of joy. Never in all the letters you have written me have I felt so 
much of you in it, never have I felt you so near, so completely in sym- 
pathy and understanding, so exquisitely, so utterly in love. (I cannot 
restrain myself from uttering this.) As I read and re-read your letter, 
I feel, at this very moment as I write, that we are alone, alone and 
together; I can hear you crying out and I send back the echo; but 
it is no echo now, for we are so near: only distances echo, my Mary 
dear. Tonight I am fuller than I have ever been before, full because of 
your inspiration, of your influence; but not this alone, because I am 
my own influence, and it is this which sways me now. The outer world 
is a great silence, a mere waste of towns and cities, empty and desolate 
as a city of the dead, a place of graves. All the people around me are 
shadows, are only for themselves, but we are for each other, and all all 
else is dead. 

“The Christmas promise has come true for ever. Now it is a great 
joy to live, and not to live has no terrors. Everything is at the highest 
point of its change; all is changed by this thing we know, this secret 
we have discovered, and I am glad. We alone are its guardian, but 
it needs no guardian, because Mary and Robbie before discovered it, 
and have guarded it ever since. 

“I shall come very soon now. But do not fret: this long absence 
in form has meant a more palpable presence in spirit. For the soul 

needs space: it flies, like a kite, and you hold the line; the line is of 

interminable distance, the kite of immeasurable power. It flies happy, 
among the life-giving, high breezes; and it makes you happy, a child at 
the other end, a child with a kite — the child whom I loved that night 
long ago and who loved me, the dear Mary whom I will love and who will 

love me for ever. She is the child who has not changed — it is the 

same face, though a woman’s now, and it is with me by day and by 
night. . . .” 

“Robin,” I answered, “your letter is the goodliest yet: it has given me 
a day and a waking night of celestial happiness— for I had it yesterday 
only, and like you I reply ‘post-haste.’ You bring me to the house of 
happiness, and your banner over me is Love: but when will your left 
hand be under my head and your right hand embrace me? My letters 


404 


MARY LEE 


bring you happiness too: but when will you read them with the eyes 
of the flesh as well as the eyes of the spirit? You say you will come 
to me ‘very soon:’ but you will come before the ink on these pages 
has faded? (If it can ever fade, for it is the blood of my aching heart.) 

“Now dear, I kiss your brow, your dear eyes, your mouth; I place my 
lips upon your dear glorious little heart. All the love that was in the 
beginning of the world, that is in the universe now, that will people 
Paradise through all the everlasting years, is in me now; I assemble 
and concentrate it into this moment, into the kiss that I am giving you 
at this moment as I write. From face to feet, my heart’s beloved, 
Good-night!” 

At last, after two or three months of these imaginary letters, 
I wrote the real one which was the necessary condition of 
their ever becoming real : I wrote to Aunt Martha. I always 
wrote to her on her birthday: it was near birthday-time, 
so no other pretext was needed. I made my letter rather 
longer than usual, introducing the one thing that mattered 
with appropriately naive and casual abruptness. “By-the- 
way,” I asked, as careful after-thought, “do you ever hear 
anything now of Robert Grove. He was a nice boy, and 
I have often wondered what became of him?” And I made 
a Special Temporary Resolution to shut the door of my 
spirit as far as possible (weak proviso) till Aunt Martha 
should have given me some news. 

It was only a day or two after writing this letter that a 
letter I received — from Lord Tawborough, now back in Eng- 
land — ushered in a new phase of spiritual trouble. Robbie 
had vanquished Almighty God: was he to be vanquished 
now by a mere peer of England? Very vividly the Stranger 
re-entered my imagination. He had thought it discreet and 
kinder to leave the Chateau almost immediately after the 
Fouquier crisis and Suzanne’s flight, and in the turmoil of 
those days and of Elise’s bitterness and then in the long 
loneliness and the following period of return to religion and 
to Robbie, he had been very little in my thoughts. This 
letter brought him gladly, warmly back. My heart bright- 
ened as I mused upon the well-loved features, the manifold 
gentleness, the secret sympathy, the goodness he had shown 
me, the delight I knew he found when near me. And this was 
no kindly benefactor’s letter, no tenderest of distant cousin’s 


WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA 405 

letter, no 7th of the Title’s letter. It was but a Best Friend’s 
letter. For a moment my heart recoiled from immediate 
irrepressible “Is it a Lover’s letter?” Some one said “No”: 
it was the Mary who wrote the mad missives to Robbie and 
the mad missives from Robbie to herself. Some one else 
said “Yes”: it was the this- world Mary whom every one 
(save Mary) knew. 

At that instant of time, I think, more surely and more 
strangely than at any other time in my life, I knew and in spiri- 
tual-physical fashion felt and understood that there was no 
such thing as “I”: that there were many living and disparate 
beings inside me. As I mused pleasurably and lovingly on 
Tawborough (Quick! What was his Christian name? — I had 
never heard it, I must learn it, or invent it, find swiftly 
some endearing name to give him in my thoughts), not only 
Robbie, but the Mary who loved him beyond all heaven jand 
earth, was some one far away, some one I had been, should be 
yet again, but was not now; some one else whom the present- 
moment “I” could contemplate from the outside, but from the 
inside not at all. 

Thus there was no sense of conflict or contradiction. 
Simple souls say: You cannot love two people at once. 
Shrewder souls add: Not in the same way. Both miss the 
point, ignore the real mystery: that you is two folks and not 
one, a divine self and a human self: with two loves accord- 
ingly, a human love and a divine love. At the selfsame 
moment of time the two selves cannot both be in possession, 
and the two loves cannot be felt together. There is no clash 
and no conflict. 

I reasoned out my hope. That the real Robbie, when I 
met him, would conquer utterly the human me, win all my 
liking, answer all my needs. Real Robbie and Dream Rob- 
bie would become one: real Mary and dream Mary would be- 
come one. Love would be everywhere, the two selves would 
mingle and make at last one Mary, the world would be re- 
vealed — God was in me, around me — I am the Universe — . 
There are no words. . . . 

But if chance — I dared not say Death — decreed that in 
this world I should never see Robbie? Then the human lik- 
ing and earthly possibility could never merge into the divine 


406 


MARY LEE 


romance. The quest my soul was created for would be over: 
Eternity would not be Love. Yet, I was a woman — and I 
loved the word “marry” — and the Stranger was my chief 
human liking and earthly possibility — and this world’s hap- 
piness was worth possessing even though emptiness lay beyond. 

So if Robbie is not given to you, said Reason, the Stranger 
will be a glorious second-best. “Glorious Second-Best.” 
dinned Reason in my heart, and a whole crowd took up the 
echo: snobbery and sanity, and pride and probability, and in- 
tellectual sympathy and physical delight. 

But first I would search the world for Robbie. 

Suddenly my heart learned that Robbie, wherever he was, 
knew that I was musing thus: knew that I was toying with 
notions of Tawborough, and over his deathbed was medita- 
ting eventual treason. Suddenly my heart understood how 
his own was aching. The magnitude of my vileness sick- 
ened me. I could find no sleep, nor heart to sleep. All 
night I heard him crying out, saw his dear face wistful with 
doubt. I told him it was not true, that I loved him and him 
only. He did not hear me; I could not make him hear me; 
I knew that his heart was still aching. 

I got out of bed, wrapped my dressing-gown around me, 
went through into the boudoir, and wrote in my Diary this 
following letter. (The inkpot was empty, and even if I had 
had the courage to take my candle and to go through the long 
dark corridor and down the stairs in search of ink, I should 
not have gone. For time was precious. I knew that, mag- 
ically, each word as I wrote it would bring ease and comfort 
to Robbie somewhere far away, and my heart could not abide 
that his own should suffer for one moment longer. So I 
snatched a pencil, glad for Robbie’s sake to mar the neat 
inky well-beloved uniformity of my eight years’ diaries, and 
scrawled feverishly at the frantic dictation of'my passionate 
heart. Today, as I copy, the pencil is faded, and the page 
the hardest to decipher in all the record) : 

To Robert Grove, 

Wheresoever You Are, my Dear ! — 

How sorrowful you are tonight, how evil am I since I am the cause! 


WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA 407 

But I write post-haste to send you tidings of comfort, to tell you there 
is no other in my heart but you, to send you my everlasting love. You 
came to me Christmas Night, and you came for ever. There has been no 
other, nor ever can. What can the man do that cometh after the king? 

My friend who is causing you such grief, you know who he is — tho’ 
’tis nine years now since the moment I knew you — tho’ you have never 
seen him nor (in earthly way) even heard his name — I know that you 
know. He is Lord Tawborough, my cousin and my benefactor, and 
my very dear friend, tho’ much older and cleverer than I. But do 
understand, dear Robbie, that the respect and affection in which I 
hold him are only the reflection of his generosity and loving kindness 
to me. It is he who gave me my education, gave me my good fortune, 
who has always been far, far too kind to me. And now that, here 
in this land, I have met with him again, I like him better than ever. 
How could I not? 

There is “like” for him and for you my whole girl’s aching LOVE. 
Even when I am looking at my kind friend’s face, suddenly I will 
stop the working of my mind and will turn to look for you, trying 
to grope out where in this world at the exact moment you are; and 
God always helps me to make a picture which I know is near reality. 
At this moment I can see you — vaguely — dreamily — in a bright city 
whose name I do not know, but where often I have sojourned in 
dreams. I cannot actually touch you now: for our meeting-place is 
not in cities or houses or streets or fields; rather we go to meet 
each other in the skies and oh! Robbie! my spirit! my soul! what 
a meeting we have, how happy, how jubilant, how full of the glory 
which is not of the earth, unutterable, something I cannot speak, or 
say, or write; something only which tears my heart into a thousand 
particles of agony, which is the divinest, wildest, fiercest, holiest, 
sweetest joy of all. The agony of love, Robbie, how it wounds! The 
moments when, in vision, I cannot invoke your face, how cruelly long 
they seem ! Then betimes your dear face forms among the mists 
of all my wildness and restlessness and smiles upon me in a peace 
that is infinite, and passeth all men’s understanding. Now, Robbie, 
know that this is no earthly thing I have, you have, but a thing 
entirely of the soul, a gift entirely of God. It should leave us toler- 
ant and truthful, ever knowing that no other friends (however dear) 
can ever endanger it, even conceive of its meaning; and ever waiting 
for its supreme fulfilment. 

Can I have this for any but you? Can any but you have this for 
me? Why, my Robbie, can you ask? 

I stretch out my arms through the unknown to reach you. I would 
comfort you, cover you with eternal kisses. Stretch your dear arms 
out too, put them around me, crush me against your breast. 

Come to me now, and come to me soon for the time that will be 
for ever. 


Mary of Christmas Night. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII: DEATHBED 


For over a year I was alone in the great empty chateau 
with my dreams. 

I ate and slept, and took walks in the park and the country- 
lanes; I comforted the ever-shrivelling Countess; I read in- 
cessantly. But I did not live. The life of my soul was 
sometimes in the past, chiefly in the future, in the present not 
at all. By deliberate endeavour I made the present even less 
than it would have been, by encouraging myself to experience 
no emotion except in my dreamings, to take no interest in the 
small daily happenings (they were very small) of my Ville- 
becq daily life, to remember that for me Life would begin at 
the moment when Vision and Reality became one. Till then 
the years were wasting. Time marked time. (Perhaps the 
real horror of Eternity — Time marking time for ever, with no 
Love beyond?) 

In her reply to my birthday-letter Aunt Martha had omitted 
any reference to Robbie. It was a cruel disappointment. 
Probably she knew nothing, or had ignored or forgotten my 
query, thinking the postscript merely the casual after-thought 
it pretended to be, hardly calling for answer? Or perhaps, 
in a moment of intuition, such as might come even to Aunt 
Martha once in a way, she had divined the truth, and had de- 
liberately omitted to reply? 

After a while, the longing to get on the track of Robbie’s 
this-world whereabouts — to hasten his Second Coming — be- 
came unbearable, and on Christmas Day 1869, being the 
Tenth Anniversary, I wrote to Aunt Martha again. I made 
the most of “A Happy New Year,” and of the anxiety which 
I had for some months been beginning to feel as to my Grand- 
mother’s health and as to whether I ought not soon to be 
coming back to Devonshire once for all. Again, with beat- 
ing heart, I penned the carefully thought-out afterthought. 
“By-the-way, I fancy I asked you once before, tho’ can’t re- 
member your telling me anything on the point. Do you ever 

408 


DEATHBED 409 

have news of Robert Grove who lived with you ten years ago, 
when I did? I sometimes think about him — he was a nice 
boy — and sometimes wonder where he is or what he may be 
doing?” 

Was it by malice or accident that she consigned her barren 
response to the cry of my aching heart to a P. S. also? 
“You ask about Robert Grove: I have heard nothing of him 
for years. He must be a young man of 21 now.” 

Wretched woman! Well, I could wait no longer, I would 
go home and find him for myself. The main news in Aunt 
Martha’s letter urged me to a like resolve: — “Mother and 
Aunt,” she said, “are both ageing. Although Mother would 
never let you know it herself; also for fear of bringing to 
an end your life abroad, which she knows has been abun- 
dantly blessed to you — yet I know she would like you back.” 

I made up my mind at once — need for Robbie made the 
duty-call to my Grandmother’s side clear and insistent — and 
told the weeping Countess within the hour. 

Though her health was no better, Elise de Florian had at 
last decided to come home. When I wrote and told her I 
was returning to England, she replied that she would forward 
her plans and come back to Normandy at once. For the first 
few months after her departure she had ignored my existence 
except for formal courtesies in her infrequent letters to her 
mother. Then, suddenly, she had begun to write, and soon 
the letters were as friendly, as unhappy, and as passionajte 
as the long talks in the old days together. I forgave her be- 
fore I was half-way through the first letter, and had for some 
time been doing battle with Pride as to whether I should 
tell her how much I wanted to see her again. 

She returned with Gabrielle one bitter January morning. 
I kissed her blue-pale forehead, and, as I gazed at the drawn 
ever-unloved face, felt for a moment bitterly ashamed of 
Love’s triumphant futures that I hoped to garner in my own 
heart. That night I prayed God in His mercy to send her 
what her heart cried out for, knowing all the while that some- 
how God Himself could not grant my petition. I knew — 
understood physically — that Elise was a woman damned into 
the world to excite no supreme love in any heart ; knew that if 


410 


MARY LEE 


I were a man I could not love her, knew that God had given 
her life without power to win the one good this life can give. 

Next morning she was too frail to rise. At first we were 
hopeful, and put everything down to the fatigues of the long 
journey. As day succeeded day, however, and she was each 
day wearier, neither we nor she could elude the truth the 
doctor was whispering: that Mademoiselle was in the last 
and rapid stages of a decline. 

One night I was lying in bed reading by candle-light. The 
door softly opened. My heart stopped. She stood there in 
a long white night-gown, trembling in the cold air, bare- 
footed, ghastly pale. There was something in the eyes that 
awed me. 

“I am dying now,” she said. Her voice was low, melo- 
dious, and as though from far-away; from another place, 
another body, another soul. “Some one must kiss me once — 
love me once, properly, before I go. Will you, Mary?” 

I had jumped out of bed. I wrapped my dressing-gown 
round her, and supporting her cold and tottering body led her 
back to her own room, and comforting her all the while got 
her back into bed, and slipped down gently beside her. 

I pressed her tenderly to me and told her a dozen foolish 
times that she would soon be better. 

“No” — she spoke in English as I did — “it is over. I wish 
it had been over long ago. I had a heart that could have 
loved the world, but no one loved me in return. I shall die 
a good Catholic, but religion has never given me comfort — 
never what it has given you. I loved my little sister: but 
it was all one-sided, and that is not Love at all. Love is 
when the getting and the giving are equal, when the two 
bodies change souls. There is only love. Poor little Su- 
zanne, she could not help it. I could never have seen in her 
eyes what I longed for her to see in mine. Oh, the need for 
some one to love me; sometimes my poor heart could have 
burst. I was not wanted in the world. I was — not — 
wanted.” 

The sentences came oddly, disjoin tedly, further and further 
apart. 

For some moments she had not spoken. Then, suddenly, 
her arms tightened round me in supreme yearning; she 


DEATHBED 411 

placed her lips bard upon mine in an embrace of ultimate 
passionate sadness; her body trembled violently, and then, 
in a swift second, was still. 

The lips were cold. My arms were round a corpse. I 
freed myself, got up, lit a candle. 

The old misery had for ever left her eyes 1 , which were 
happy, and full of love. I closed them reverently, kissed 
each lid as I closed it, and went out to awaken the household. 


CHAPTER XXXIX: END OF THREE VISIONS: 
THE STRANGER’S 


Immediately after the funeral, I left the desolate Chateau, 
the desolate Countess, the country of France soon to be made 
desolate, and, after nearly four years’ absence, returned to my 
native land. 

On Southampton Quay Lord Tawborough awaited me. 

I saw him from 'the boat before I landed, and he saw me. 
I braved myself for the greeting: I would be pleasant, nat- 
ural, would look him frankly in the eyes. I came down the 
little landing-bridge, we shook hands, for one half-instant of 
time I looked into his eyes; then self-consciousness and joy 
rolled through me like a tide, my heart beat unreasonably, 
I forgot who or where I was. When I got over the worst of 
it, I was conscious of how foolish I had been, and I flushed 
to think what he might be thinking. I still dared not look. 
He was busying himself with my luggage. We got into a 
cab, into a train. . . . 

If it was not love that filled me, what was it? If it was 
not love that I had seen for that swift second in his eyes, 
what was its name? Or was I once more judging others by 
my romantic self-conscious self, lending them looks and 
emotions they had never sought to borrow? Yet had he 
made this journey to Southampton for cousinship’s sake, or 
through courtesy to my Grandmother, or for my mother’s 
sake — or for any sake but mine? I knew that he had not. 
Then I must tell him I was “another’s.” How — without 
absurdity, immodesty? For I did not know, by any solid 
sign or certain token, that he loved me at all. He sat in the 
corner of the carriage reading his newspaper. I sat in my 
corner reading mine — the first English newspaper I had ever 
touched. 

It was the last stage of our journey; we had changed at 
Exeter on to the North Devon line. He suddenly threw his 

412 


END OF THREE VISIONS: THE STRANGER’S 413 

newspaper aside and looked me bravely in the face, though 
he could not completely master his trembling eyes. 

“Well, Miss Traies”(my name since my twenty-first birth- 
day, when the lawyers had slain Miss Lee), “what are your 
plans? What are you going to do with your life? What is 
the program?” Would-be banteringly. 

“You know,” I replied. “I am coming home to help and 
look after my Grandmother and my Great-Aunt.” 

“They are old.” 

“So will you be one day.” 

“Perhaps I am old already. Do not mock at my poor grey 
hairs! But I wonder if I want to wait until I am as old as 
your Great- Aunt for some one to look after me. Young men 
want looking after, Miss Traies, as well as old women. Old 
age is lonely, but youth is lonelier. Perhaps there are 
younger folk than your good Grandmother and Great- 
Aunt whom you could help. There are men in the world 
too.” 

“I know,” I said, realizing that in speaking aloud of my love 
of Robbie for the first time in all the years I should be doing 
the kindest thing to my dear friend the Stranger, and should 
at the same time be bringing that love magically nearer real- 
ity. For if I spoke of him, he was real: to utter his name to 
another human being made him suddenly part of this visible 
world. From this uttering of his name to meeting him was 
but a matter of hours — days. Devon was a little place: green 
fields and red loam flashed quickly past: as I spoke of him I 
saw him coming nearer. “I know — maybe there is a man in 
the world I shall help — help him for all his life.” 

I could not look. 

“Do I know him?” he asked. His voice was odd, toneless: 
steadied by supernatural effort: nearest despair, though still 
caressing hope. 

“No,” I replied shortly. 

In the silence that followed I could see nothing, think noth- 
ing; hear nothing but my own negation ringing in my ears, 
harsher and more brutal as each second passed. 

My cruelty filled me with exquisite pity: the insolent eternal 
offering from the soul that is not suffering to the soul that is. 
Poor heart, it could not be! My eyes were my chief difficulty: 


414 MARY LEE 

but the carriage window held resources. He went back to his 
Times. 

Odd, crowding sensations overcame me as the train drew 
up in Tawborough station, the same to which, once upon a 
time, Satan Had Come — and the North Devon odour (western, 
immemorial, unmistakable: the smell of broad tidal rivers 
that are the sea, yet not the sea) filled my nostrils. We drove 
across the bridge: for the first moment the bright town spread 
out before me across the river wore the cardboard strangeness 
of a foreign land. There was an almost imperceptible in- 
stant of confusion, while my senses adjusted themselves to 
the changed physical world, and then the buildings around 
me — we had crossed the bridge by now — seemed normal, in- 
evitable; and France was a dream I had to struggle to 
remember. 

The same odd moment of physically-felt spiritual adjust- 
ment was repeated at the house, where my Grandmother stood 
at the gate of Number Eight to greet me. It was not so much 
that she was frailer, thinner, older, it was that she was a dif- 
ferent person, or rather that the I who now beheld her was 
a different person from the I who had known her before, and 
to the new me she was a new creature. As I kissed her the 
years rolled back, my own self changed, and she was Grand- 
mother of old. 

Inside the house the strangeness and the same return were 
again repeated, this time less perceptibly. On the morrow I 
went very slowly over the whole house, remaining for some 
time in each room and staring at every corner and every article 
of furniture, while I summoned back to me all the ancient 
happenings that connected me with each. Here was Aunt 
Jael’s front parlour, a little yellower, a little darker, a little 
dingier than of old. There on the floor by the window was the 
row of dismal etiolated plants, each in its earth-begrimed 
saucer. There was her bluebeard cupboard; I opened it, and 
a smell of decayed fruits and stale sweetmeats escaped; prob- 
ably no one had been near it for months. There was a jar 
of ginger, and a French-plum jar. I got as far as handling 
the lids, but no further: what new flaming letters might not 
be writ within? Besides, the plums were probably bad, while 


END OF THREE VISIONS: THE STRANGER’S 415 

I never really cared for ginger. There too was the door 
that once had opened, through which a face of nameless horror 
once had peeped. There was Lord Benamuckee. 

Here was the dining-room, with horsehair furniture and 
Axminster carpet perhaps shabbier than I remembered them, 
this room which all through my childhood, even too through 
my year in France, and in all my life since, has always, — in 
those moments when I behold myself from outside, when my 
soul flies away from my body and looks down upon it from 
afar — been the visual setting and earthly ambience of Mary. 
Here was the kitchen where Mrs. Cheese had lived, where 
Robinson Crewjoe had stealthily been born, where my love 
for scrubbing floors had for ever died. Here was the blue 
attic, cold, barren, airless; heavy with memories — of misery 
and cruelty and tears. 

After a few nights’ dreams in my old bedroom — confused 
visions of the Chateau and Fouquier and Elise and Napoleon — 
the four years of France became literally no more than a dream 
in my memory. I remembered them rather from the morning’s 
impressions of these nightly visions than from the actual hap- 
penings themselves. If indeed they were actual happenings. 
For frequently I could not be sure, and would fancy that all 
the complex visions of the life in France had come to me 
in sleep: until Calendar and Common-Sense convinced me. 

Aunt Jael seemed to share my illusions. She would ask me 
sometimes where I had been, and rail at me for “stopping out” 
so long, treating my absence as one of hours rather than years. 
Never, at any rate after the first day or two, did she treat me 
as though my life at Bear Lawn had been anything but continu- 
ous. I treated her likewise, swiftly forgetting the first moment 
of contact when (as with my Grandmother) she had seemed to 
me so much smaller, swarthier, dryer, older than in my 
memory: a stranger who immediately, imperceptibily, be- 
came familiar once again. She rarely got out of bed now, 
and her voice was huskier and less authoritative than of old. 
But she cursed and railed and threatened almost as bravely 
as ever. I alone had really changed, and wondered some- 
times at the earlier Mary who had taken this bad old 
woman’s imprecations so bitterly to heart. My new heart 
was too full of the hopes of love to feed on the broodings 


416 


MARY LEE 


of hate. Moreover, though the faithful thorned stick lay 
on the coverlet ready to hand for use it never struck out at 
me now, and the poor villainous veteran saw no service rem- 
iniscent of his ancient glory save floor-thumpings to summon 
meals — or Mary. I neither feared her nor hated her. I 
pitied her. 

Some weeks before, Mrs. Cheese had been taken ill and 
had gone back to her friends in the country. About the 
same time Aunt Jael had taken permanently to her bed, and 
my Grandmother, who was herself rapidly failing, had had 
to attend to her sister and do the household work. Sister 
Briggs came to help in the kitchen in the mornings, and 
Simeon Greeber charitably allowed Aunt Martha to come 
over for the day on one or two occasions; but the two old 
women — the two dying old women — were virtually alone in 
the big house, with my Grandmother, probably the weaker 
of the two, struggling against pain, and against the fatigue 
which marks the journey’s end, to keep on her feet for her 
sister’s sake. I realized how selfish I had been not to have 
come sooner: except that in France another old woman had 
needed me almost as much. 

“I’m glad ’eo’ve come, my dearie,” said my Grandmother 
on the night of my return. “God has dealt very lovingly 
with me; but I am full of years, and ’tis time for me to go. 
I have finished the work He gave me to do. I was waiting 
for ’ee to come hack, my dearie: now I can go Home.” 

I was sobbing. 

“Don’t ’ee,” she reproved gently. “There is no place 
for sorrow. Heaven is near, and the peace of God which 
passeth all understanding.” 

One strange day I remember: the last valiant effort of 
Aunt Jael to revive the splendour of her stark imperial days. 
Glory and Salvation were old and frail now, especially 
Glory, and for a year and more, the Empress’ famous Tues- 
days had been abandoned. 

“There’ll be a last one,” declared Aunt Jael, and one 
Tuesday morning when she felt stronger than usual, decreed 
a Final Feast. After dinner, which in the regular way I 
had taken to her in her bed, I helped her to dress, and got 


END OF THREE VISIONS: THE STRANGER’S 417 

her down into the old armchair. Then, as bidden, I sallied 
forth, hired a cab, drove to Brother Brawn’s (robing-house 
for Jordan) upon the Quay, and after infinite delay, while 
Glory made minutest traditional preparations with goat’s 
milk, rusks and bags, haled those two mad old Christian 
women to Number Eight. 

“Our last foregathering on earth,” chuckled my Great- 
Aunt brightly throughout the afternoon. 

Death was discussed till tea-time: with dogmatic satis- 
faction by Aunt Jael, with vulgar self-assurance by Sal- 
vation, with mystical hope by Glory, with reverent delight 
by my Grandmother. 

“Though Death, mind ’ee, is a pain,” said Salvation; wag- 
ging her head sagely. 

“Nay, ’tis a portal,” corrected Glory. 

“Yes,” said my Grandmother, “a portal to the Life Ever- 
lasting.” 

The Life Everlasting. Yet 1 looked and saw joy in the 
four old faces. 

Glory was absolved her corner penitence for this Last Tea, 
and the five of us sat down when I had laid the table and 
got the meal ready. * 

Immediately a row began. Now saying grace was a 
strictly regulated detail of the Tuesday ritual. Decades of 
dispute had not enabled Aunt Jael to oust my Grandmother 
from an equal share in this privilege in our ordinary daily 
life alone, and a compromise had obtained through all the 
years I remember whereby Aunt Jael asked the blessing 
before breakfast and dinner, and Grandmother before tea 
and supper. But on Tuesdays, with two guests to be reck- 
oned with, both of whom were as eager in pre-prandial 
“testimony” as their hostesses, the position was more com- 
plicated. Though sometimes challenged, the rule of taking 
turns Tuesday by Tuesday in saying grace, had gradually 
become established: a childish and democratic arrangement 
which can have been little to Aunt Jael’s taste, but which, 
despite occasional bickerings, was accepted as early as I 
can remember. 

It was for the privilege of asking the blessing at this 
Last Tea, this ultimate spread, that the dispute now arose. 


418 


MARY LEE 


Grandmother and Glory took no part, but Aunt Jael and Sal- 
vation each swore it was her turn. 

“We’ll all ask a blessing,” finally proposed my Grand- 
mother. The suggestion was accepted, and in turn the Four 
Graces were solemnly declaimed. , 

Aunt Jael (stentorian, staccato) : 

“Oh Lord. Thou hast promised grace and glory to Thy 
Saints. Oh Lord. Change these husks to the fruitful meats 
of the spirit before our eyes. Support our footsteps to the 
Table of Thy bounties spread in the wilderness; where true 
believers may feast among the bones of those who sought 
Thee to their own destruction. Aymen.” 

My Grandmother (in a whisper, soft, sibilant) : 

“Behold us, 0 Lord of seedtime and harvest, set free 
from earthly care for a season that we may dwell on the 
bounties which Thy hand has provided. Thou preparest a 
table before us in the presence of our enemies (sic). Thy 
dear mercies now spread before us are many: sanctify them, 
we beg Thee, to our use, and us to Thy service. Make us 
ever grateful, and nourish us with the meat of Thy Word. 
For Jee-sus’ sake.” 

Salvation (noisily; with sticky report, sound of spoon in 
treacle- jar sharply withdrawn) : 

“For what us are about to receive, may the Laur make 
we trewly thankful.” 

Glory (gauntly) : 

“Bless er-er-er these er-er-er meats!” 

And we set to. 

Grandmother prayed with me continually. She was too 
old to kneel. Propped up on her pillows, she would take 
my head upon her heart as I half-lay half-leant upon her 
bed. My vanity, my worldliness, my imperilled soul were 
the unvarying theme. 

One night she stopped sharply in the middle of her prayer. 

“Your soul, my dear, is not praying with me. The Lord 
tells me that at this moment your mind is on fleshly things. 
Look at the eyes of ’ee! You’re hankering after earthly 
glory, after high station in this worldly life.” 

Then, after a moment’s pause, shrewdly: “Has any one 


END OF THREE VISIONS: THE STRANGER’S 419 

ever proposed to ’ee to give ’ee another station in life?” 

“No. What do you mean, Grandmother? Who?” 

“Nothing. Maybe no one.” And she resumed her prayer. 

I was more careful in pretending to listen, but ceased to 
listen at all. I was trying — with the conscientious, artifi- 
cially lashed-up desperation of the egotistical soul that sees for 
a moment its own nakedness — to visualize what the Stranger’s 
misery and hunger must be like if by some wild chance (“It 
is so,” God shouted in my heart”) he loved me, not as I loved 
him, but as I loved Robbie. Ah no, it could not be. There 
is never a love like our own. 

. Send her Thy love. For /ee- sus’ sake. Aymen.” 


CHAPTER XL: END OF THREE VISIONS: 
NAPOLEON’S 


Soon Grandmother followed Aunt Jael, and took to her 
bed permanently. One Lord’s Day evening I helped her 
upstairs for the last time. 

My life was now spent in the two bedrooms where my 
Great-Aunt and Grandmother lay, and in crossing the corridor 
from one to the other as Aunt Jael’s voice or my own sense 
of Grandmother’s need alternatively summoned me. In the 
one room I was chiefly cursed at, in the other principally 
prayed for. 

Sister Briggs came in most days to give me help in the 
kitchen ; even so I found it a heavy task to do the whole work of 
the big house and to feed and mind and minister to two bed- 
ridden old women. But I preferred it to the heavy idleness of 
Villebecq: found waiting upon others more natural, more 
agreeable, more self-righteously satisfactory, than being waited 
upon. There was the pride of humility, the unctuous flattery of 
fatigue. 

I never went out of doors except to Market and (for Break- 
ing of Bread only) to Meeting. I had the lonely livelong 
day in which to work and to think of Robbie. Here I was 
back in Devon, the Devon where I had met him, the Devon 
where he lived: was I any whit the nearer finding him? 
My brain revolved in a futile circle of planlessness and hope: 
as usual, my imperial imagination failed cravenly when face 
to face with need for practical endeavour. The only plan 
I could decide upon was to broach the subject to Aunt Martha 
next time she should come over from Torribridge, to ask 
her brazenly for the address of the family in South Devon 
and the surname of Uncle Vivian, and then to write direct 
for news of my Beloved. It was high time Aunt Martha 
came over again — she had not been near her mother’s bed- 
side for a fortnight and more. When would she come? 

420 


END OF THREE VISIONS: NAPOLEON’S 421 

My only other interest during these days was in the tre- 
mendous drama being enacted in the country I had just left. 
Unknown to my Grandmother I took in the Times newspaper 
daily, and had French ones specially sent to me. I followed 
every stage of the war and the political story with a passion 
that seemed sometimes incongruous in this bare Christian 
English house. What had Bear Lawn to do with this war? — 
or any other war? (I forgot that it had been built for bar- 
racks in the other Napoleon’s day; that maybe redcoats who 
had seen and smashed Boney had slept and sworn in each 
familiar room.) 

“Shall I tell you anything about the war?” I asked my 
Grandmother one evening. “There is only one war,” she 
replied, “God’s war with evil.” 

I was so infinitely more interested in persons than things, 
in the players than in the play, that never at any stage of these 
events across the Channel did I much reflect on their mighty 
political significance: how the Ruler of Europe who, through 
centuries, had lived in Paris, would live from this time on- 
wards in Berlin; or how, together with the sword the last 
French Emperor handed to the first German Emperor at Sedan, 
he was handing also the secular leadership of civilization. I 
could only think of the hunch-shouldered suffering wretch 
who proffered the sword. 

His lady, too, was an object-lesson for would-be em- 
presses. Though if her fate was unambiguous, as the Lord’s 
lessons are, the fashion in which she faced it was more doubt- 
ful, as History is. Some accounts spoke of her bravery: 
how calm and queenly she was while the savage mob in the 
Tuileries garden shrieked “Dethronement!” and would have 
torn her limb from limb — others of her cowardice: how 
cravenly she scuttled away at the first approach of realities, 
where a Maria Theresa would have driven hardily through 
the streets and by courage effected a revulsion of the people’s 
feeling. Her Good-bye, how touching! — the last sad glance 
at the well-loved rooms in which for seventeen imperial years 
she had reigned, the thought for others, the dignified tears, 
the bitter “In France no one has the right to be unfortunate!” 
wrung from her anguished soul — or — the stealthy selfish 
escape under the protection of foreigners, the abandonment 


422 


MARY LEE 


of others, the skulking anxiety for her own skin only, the 
well-filled purse. The candid selfishness: “Do not think of 
me, think only of France” — or — the uneasy self-righteous- 
ness: “Have I not done my duty to the end?” “Yes, 
Madam”: “I am on your arm” (to the Italian Ambassador) : 
“Am I trembling?” “No, Madam, you are not trembling.” 
“What more could I have done?”: “Nothing, Madam.” 

How loving a wife she had been in the dark preceding weeks ! 
In an agony of fear for her beloved husband’s life if he should 
return to Paris, how she had sent him hourly telegrams, mes- 
sages of aching anxiety and forethought and tenderness, to 
dissuade him from the project, — or — to keep him away from 
the Capital at all costs, since his return would put an end to 
her power, her Regency, the wreaking of her spites and vendet- 
tas, her even darker ambitions. How many hours of unre- 
corded prayer had she not spent with God! — praying for the 
sweet Emperor’s safety — or — for the stray bullet that would 
achieve her ends. 

France was ungrateful, France who had paid for her food 
and her follies for seventeen squandering years. And the jour- 
nals were indiscriminating, to print such varying tales. And 
events were unkind, to give the poor later historian so embar- 
rassing a choice between black and white and every colour be- 
tween. But Fate was just, to turn his wheel abruptly against 
this over-fortunate woman; or unjust, maybe, to visit with 
spite so calamitous one who was no eviller or vainer than al- 
most any other woman of us would have been in her place — no 
worse than you, Mary Lee. 

No worse than me: granted. But in what way different 
from me, then, to have deserved those incomparable years? 
Ah, well, she would pay for them now: God gets even. 

The place of pity is where Fate turns upon a nobler soul. I 
suffered with this gentle unscrupulous Man who had woo’d 
Ambition through the last dismal stages on the road where 
Ambition ends. A Bonaparte at the back of his armies, slink- 
ing from defeat to defeat. Bodily pain so monstrous that it 
could only be borne with the help of morphia injected every 
few hours by the sombre-faced young doctor who did duty for 
glittering aide-de-camp. A rudderless wretch, dragged at the 
heels of “his” army like so much tawdry baggage, a crowned 


END OF THREE VISIONS: NAPOLEON’S 423 


camp-follower, a commander without a command; flaunted by 
his officers, mocked by his soldiers, cajoled, disowned and 
threatened by his wife; not daring to return to his capital, 
not daring to show himself to his troops: shrinking back in 
the gorgeous Imperial carriage from the hisses of the towns- 
people in the cities of France he was abandoning to the foe, 
and the lewd and horrible insults of the troops. A hunch- 
back haggard doll. 

For Sedan he rouged himself. Why not? The play had 
lasted for eighteen years, and the hollow cheeks needed new 
cosmetics for the final scene. He quitted the stage with ex- 
cruciating agony of soul and body, with painted dignity, with 
eternal inseparable calm. Nothing in his reign became him 
like the leaving it. 

Vanity seeks ambition, and the end of ambition is Vanity. 
There is only love. 


CHAPTER XLI: END OF THREE VISIONS: MINE 


Before writing to Aunt Martha I waited for the moment in 
my aged kinswomen’s increasing weakness when Conscience 
told me it was for their sakes only I was summoning her, and 
not for my own. 

It was the second night after she had come. The hour was 
late, as Grandmother and Aunt Jael had been long in getting to 
sleep. Aunt Martha and I were sitting down to a bite of sup- 
per in the lamp-lit dining-room. All day I had been praying 
for boldness of heart and steadiness of voice that I might ask 
her my question. I stared now at her listless faded face. I 
was already moistening my lips for my introductory “I say, 
Aunt Martha — ” or “By the way — .” 

Telepathy is true, or Coincidence longer-armed than Fate. 
I had not spoken the words; she took them out of my mouth. 

“Oh, young Robert Grove: I forgot. Simeon heard he was 
dead — died nine years ago, I believe. Poor young fellow, how 
soon gone! How one longs to know that all was well with 
him before he died — .” 

I sat, staring. 

For moments maybe. For Eternity perhaps. I do not 
know. 

My heart was cold, my brain numb. My body and mind 
were gripped as in a vice; I could not move my head to one 
side or the other, I could not remove my unseeing eyes from a 
fixed point in emptiness straight before me ; my brain could not 
work, could seek no details of where or when or why, could not 
move from one cramped corner of agony, in which it must 
listen ceaselessly to a far-away voice repeating “Robbie is 
dead. Robbie is dead. Robbie is dead.” 

I was nearly unconscious: there was no me left to be con- 
scious. As in a dream I remember Aunt Martha being kind, 
being fussy, pleading, advising, exhorting, appealing. I 
would not, could not move. I sat in the same chair, in the 
same posture, staring, staring at nothing ; speaking, speaking to 
no one. “Robbie is dead. Robbie is dead.’’ 

424 


425 


END OF THREE VISIONS: MINE 

After a while Aunt Martha seemed to have gone. The lamp 
was still burning. Very slowly, through the hours of that 
eternal night, the meaning of what had happened entered my 
heart; broke my heart. 

Grey morning light was entering the room. I got up from 
the chair, stiff and cramped after my long unmoving vigil, 
went up to my bedroom, discovered my diary in its secret 
haunt, brought the Times-wrapped exercise-book downstairs 
again with me, blew out the lamp, and in the dim light of the 
autumn dawn, sat down amid the uncleared supper things to 
pen my last entry: — 

“I am writing this at five o’clock on Lord’s Day morning at the 
most miserable moment of my life. I have been up all night. I have 
not slept. I don’t know how it happened: unless God, in His cruelty, 
heard the unspoken question in my heart and answered it through 
Aunt Martha’s witless mouth. ‘Oh, young Robert’ she began — my 
heart stopped beating — ‘I forgot’! I could not have guessed what was 
coming, have guessed that his presence all these years was a lie, a 
vanity of my own creating. Dead. It was so terrible that I could 
not feel it soon, did not understand for a long time what it meant. 
My heart was broken; but did not understand. It is here, alone in 
the long night, that I have found out what it is. I can hardly see to 
write for my tears. What I feel, I cannot write. It is the cruelles* 
thing (save creating me) that God has done to me; God who damned 
me into the world, hated, loveless. I have lived a life such as few 
girls — cowering, haunted, passionate; utterly unloving, unloved utterly. 
Then I loved this dark-haired boy on that Christmas Night when — 
more surely even than on Thy Jordan morning with me, 0 Lord God! 
— in tears and happiness I was BORN AGAIN. And ever since, in 
endless vision, with my soul and brain and body, I have been faint 
with loving him, and memory has kindled hope and hope excelled 
memory, and I have thanked the Lord God even for His nameless 
gift of immortality, — for it would be immortality with Robbie. God, 

I thought, had paid me for the unhappiness in which He had created 
me: He had given me Robbie. Year after year his heart was with 
me. I was gladder and more radiant than the ordinary happy woman 
could be. My heart sang aloud with my love. 

“And now it is gone. It burns my heart as salt tears are burning 
my lashes. I understand. Love was never meant for me. I was con- 
ceived in hate. I shall die in bate. God gave me the wildest-loving 
soul He could fashion, and I kept it for my dear one only. And now 
my beloved is gone, gone to his long home, and the light is gone out 
of my life. For him there is no immortality: immortality is only for 
the damned. Sorrow is older than laughter, and sorrow alone lives. 
My lovely boy is dead for ever; I thank God only for this, that he 


426 


MARY LEE 


has spared him Eternity. And I, who loved him, must live on for 
ever alone: alone through all the merciless eternal years — oh, Christ 
Jesus on the Cross, strike me dead now, abolish the universe, abolish 
Thyself — ah Robbie, Robbie, come back. 

“No, it is no good. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time 
to mourn, and a time to dance. For me it shall be weeping-time and 
mourning-time for ever. Joy and laughter are for other folk. I shall 
go, as I knew I must, the way of all my people, the way of bitterness 
and loneliness, the way of my Mother. (Mother dear, will God strive 
to keep us apart in Eternity?) I shall find no happiness under the 
sun; nor in heaven — nor hell — afterwards. The visions of the past 
ican comfort me no more; for they were but phantoms of my own 
creating. This past year when night after night he has come to my 
body and soul, it was not he who came at all — his bright body wa9 
rotting in the grave (where? since when?) — but a cruel sham of 
Christ’s, a silly clockwork presence born of my own love and hunger, 
a cowardly trick God played upon me. 

“My beloved, there is Eternity and the grave between us. I cannot, 
dare not, conjure up your vision. In memory only, I will go back 
once, for the last time, to Christmas of long ago, feel your gentle 
dead arms around me, and kiss you Good-night and Good-bye. 

Mary Lee. 


CHAPTER XLII: TWIN DEATHBEDS 


Grandmother and Aunt Jael were failing every hour. On 
the afternoon of the morrow of my misery old Doctor le 
Mesurier took me aside — I was the mistress now — and told me 
that for both of them it was only a matter of days. 

“Which will be the first?” I asked him, between tears. 

“I should not like to say.” 

“ Tis a close race, my dearie,” was the way my Grandmother 
put it when, a few minutes later, I went upstairs to cry my 
heart out by her side: “a close race to glory, and the odds are 
even.” 

She smiled, with a tender frivolity that was new to me. 
New too was this form and manner of speech. 

Both she and Aunt Jael knew that the end was near. I got 
a nurse the same evening, who took turns with me throughout 
the night, crossing from one bedroom to the other. I could 
not forget my own grief, but had little time to remember it. 
I was so dead -tired when I got to my bed that, almost for the 
first time in my life, there was no long waking-time : the breed- 
ing-time of misery and fear. 

Aunt Jael developed jaundice, also a bronchial cough. She 
was soon too weak and suffering to be her own unpleasant 
self. The Devil, however, as late as four days before the end, 
made a last desperate struggle for the soul that had so long 
been His. It was one evening; I had brought the last beef- 
tea for the night, changed the hot-water jar, straightened her 
pillows and put everything right. Suddenly, without warning, 
she dashed the cup, full of the steaming liquid, into my face, 
which it cut and scalded ; screaming the while like a mad thing. 
She was a vile, a repulsive sight. With her toothless hairy 
face distorted with rage, foul also with the dark-yellowish 
taint of the jaundice; with her beady black eyes gleaming 
savagely, her immense nose, her crested nightcap, she looked 
like some obscene monster, half-bird, half -witch. She clutched 
the ancient stick, slashed out at me savagely-feebly; her failure 

427 


428 


MARY LEE 


to hurt me bringing her to the last livid agony of rage. She 
screamed, grimaced, dribbled: “Ingrate, minx, harlot — oh, 
I’ll kill ’ee, you and yer wicked idle Grandmother. I’ll — .” 
She was cut short by a fit of violent coughing. She lay back 
-sweating with pain, almost unconscious with hate, her face too 
loathsome to behold. She was possessed of the Devil. 

Drawn by the noise, the nurse came hurriedly from my 
Grandmother’s room. But already Satan was cast out; now 
she was sobbing, grunting, wailing, in a maudlin pitiful way. 
For a moment our eyes met. I saw shame there, and my 
heart quickened towards her. “Never mind, Aunt. You had 
a nightmare. It is over now.” 

In the opposite bedroom, the end drew gentlier near. In 
her less painful hours, my Grandmother was livelier than I had 
ever known her. With the scent of Death’s nostrils in the room, 
she grew skittish, gay, worldly. She gave me droll winks and 
knowing smiles, as she recounted pranks of eighty years ago: 
mighty jam-stealing forays, ginger battues, historic bell-ring- 
ing expeditions ; tremendous truantries, twelve-year-old amours. 

“Grandmother,” I said gravely (I was the godly parent now 
and she the child) “you’ve waited a long time to tell me this!” 
For a moment genuine priggery, and sour remembrance of the 
blows meted out for my own lean escapades, hindered my join- 
ing in her brazen glee. Then we laughed together till we 
cried. 

“Ah, they were happy days,” she said, wiping her eyes. 
“My unsaved days,” she added, the holy familiar tone coming 
into her voice, “the days before I found the Lord.” 

Then she fell to talking of the Faith, and for the first and 
last time in her life spoke critically of the ways of the Lord’s 
People. 

“They do too much for them that are saved already, and too 
little to bring in them that are lost. ’Tain’t the Lord’s pre- 
cept at all. ‘Remember the ninety-and-nine.’ ” 

As in everything, my Grandmother was right. Apart from 
the Foreign Field, our people make small stir to rescue the 
perishing. That, they feel, is not the business of religion: 
which is not so much to reclaim sinners as to edify saints, not 
to fight the Devil but to worship God. Thus they are in 
sharpest contrast with the later nineteenth-century evangelism, 


TWIN DEATHBEDS 


429 


with its hordes of professional missioners — mountebanks, 
gipsies, Jews — its Transatlantic sensationalism and senti- 
mentalism, its hysterical appeals to the spiritual egotism of the 
individual, its sinner hunts, its spectacular war with Satan. 

Though they are not always free from the danger of spiritual 
pride, it may at least be said of our people that they worship 
the Lord in a quieter holier way, that they practise the fast- 
vanishing art of personal religion. Yet my Grandmother was 
right: “It is the sinners that Christ came to save. ‘Remember 
the ninety-and-nine!’ ” 

One morning I found Aunt Jael greatly changed. Her eyes 
were gentler than ever before, her face more peaceful. 

I could see she had been waiting for me. 

“Child,” she said quickly, “is your Grandmother awake?” 
Her voice was soft. 

“I haven’t been in yet. I always come to you first. The 
nurse is with her.” 

“Go and see. I must speak to her.” 

“Speak to her, Aunt? You mean you want me to give her 
a message.” 

“No, Child. I must speak to her with my own voice. Go 
first and find whether she is awake.” 

“Yes,” I reported. 

“Now then. Open the door wide. Yes — now put that chair 
against it, so it can’t swing to. Now go and do likewise with 
your Grandmother’s door. First move me right to the edge of 
the bed — thank ’ee! There!” I propped her up amid her pil- 
lows. 

Then with Grandmother and her door I did the same. (The 
nurse was downstairs.) 

Though the two old women could not see each other, despite 
the width of the passage their faces cannot have been more than 
seven yards apart. Grandmother’s deafness had increased 
with her years, but today, helped out now and then with a word 
from me, she heard everything. I stood just inside Grand- 
mother’s room, watching her face, and listening to Aunt Jael, 
whose voice was calm and clear. 

“Can you hear me, Hannah?” 

“Yes, Jael.” 


430 


MARY LEE 

“Well, sister, I haven’t many hours to go. The Lord is 
calling, but I’ve this to say to ’ee first. These eighty years 
we’ve been together I’ve been a hard sister to ’ee. These 
eighty years I’ve been a sinner. ’Ee ’ve been a loving for- 
giving woman, and I’ve been a bad and selfish one: full o’ 
pride and wickedness. Before I go, I want to hear ’ee with 
your own lips say as ’ee forgive me, as maybe the Lord in 
His mercy will too — ” 

A fit of coughing cut her short. Her pride she had torn 
into shreds. Grandmother was sobbing with joy. 

“Don’t ’ee talk so, my dear! I’ve nothing to forgive ’ee.” 

“Hannah woman, ’tis not so. Come, oh say ’ee forgive 
me.” The old woman was eager, desperate: pleading against 
time, against Eternity. 

“I forgive ’ee,” said my Grandmother. 

The same evening Aunt Jael died in her sleep. The face 
was not ugly in death; the mouth was still hard and proud, 
but the eyes were serene. 

She won the glory-race by just seven days. After this brief 
space of time — the same span as between my birth and my 
mother’s death — my Grandmother followed. 

It was the day after Aunt Jael’s funeral. Towards the end 
she called me Rachel. At the very last she sat up in bed, 
gazed at me with a tenderness already radiant with the glory 
of the City of Heaven. 

“I’m journeying away, Rachel, — up yonder. Mary is there. 
Can’t ’ee see her, Rachel? What is the veil between ’ee? — 
I can see ’ee both. Look! There is New Jerusalem. The 
King in His Glory. Her words. Come — ” 

She fell back. I caught her in my arms. My soul could 
not follow. 


CHAPTER XLIII: ONE LONG PRERCESSION O’ 
DEATHBEDS 


About this time, indeed, persons in the play of Mary Lee 
were dying Hamletwise. One after another, swiftly, bodies 
were being trundled off the stage. 

Aunt Jael’s leadership of the Seven Old Maids of Taw- 
borough was maintained in death. It was edifying to note 
that just as sixty years ago they had briskly emulated her 
Conversion, now with equal alacrity they followed her to her 
Home above. 

Within three months Miss Glory Clinker departed. One 
February morning she went away; wide-eyed, stuttering, tri- 
umphant. I heard her last words. “The night is far spent, 
the day is at hand — er-er-er.” Her eyes lit up; a beatific 
happiness brightened the kind foolish old face. “Er-er-er — .” 
She was stammering before the Throne. 

Of the Seven, Salvation alone survived for long: till her 
one hundred and fourth year, a few years only before the 
time at which I write, almost into the new century that is at 
hand. Her last words were incoherent. I could not catch 
them, though I tried to. 

Pentecost Dodderidge outlived his most famous convert by 
seven months only. He was in his one hundredth year. A 
stroke of paralysis came suddenly, followed by a restless ten 
days, in which he suffered intense pain and displayed eternal 
patience, and which he filled with edifying epigrams and godly 
saws and instances, all reverently collected by the faithful ones 
around his bed and embodied in his Choice Sayings. (The 
volume is before me as I write.) As the last saved soul to 
whom he had stood Baptist, and as the grand-niece and grand- 
child of “those two eminent bright jewels in our Saviour’s 
crown,” I was specially in request at the old man’s bedside. 
His last words, spoken clearly and solemnly, with all the 
actor-like sincerity of his greatest days, were these, each 

43i 


432 


MARY LEE 


utterance coming a clear moment or two after the other: 

“Peace within and rest.” 

“I have peace with God.” 

“The Peace of God which passeth all understanding — ” 

This, his last utterance, was given at about a quarter past 
eight. Some forty minutes later he passed away: voyaging 
peacefully to Heaven. 

Of another death I knew only by hearsay. It was a Bona- 
partist intriguer who, just before the dynasty’s disaster, had 
ratted to the Republicans, and in the struggle with the Red 
Commune of Paris became a spy for the Versaillais. I first 
saw the name and the bare fact in the French newspapers, 
but a fuller story reached me in another way. Of the Grand 
Rouquette, Red gaolers, a cage. A name on a list. One 
word at the foot: Condemned. A yard, a high wall covered 
with vines and creepers. A May morning, six priests who died 
like heroes, filthy insults, levelled rifles. Liberty, Equality, 
Fraternity. Fire! an explosion. A curled-up corpse upon 
the ground. 

His former employer lived a few years longer, keeping 
Death at bay by sheer fussiness. Her last gesture, Gabrielle 
wrote me, was a deprecatory shrug of the shoulder; her last 
(recorded) utterance “Enfin — •” 

In another, an uglier death than any, the human creature 
gave way to the passion of extreme sickening fear, to fawning 
appeals for God’s mercy, to every last licence — except the use 
of the first person singular. I stood outside; Aunt Martha 
would not let me enter the room for very shame, though I 
peeped in once and saw the pale face livid with fear, streaming 
with sweat, contorted with agony of body and soul. 

“Forgive, Lord, forgive!” he was whining, “all has been 
done for Thy sake. One sees one’s filthy sinfulness, one sees 
the error of one’s ways- — •” 

Not in such cowardly supplication, but in arrogant prayer, 
prayer as to an equal, prayer to his young friend God, died 
a braver, wickeder old man. They found him kneeling against 
his bed: heart-failure, said the doctor. His face was insolent, 


ONE LONG PRERCESSION O’ DEATHBEDS 433 

beautiful, serene. His soul had strolled disdainfully into 
Heaven, as a gentleman’s should. Among his papers were 
found two worn photographs 1 , one of my mother, the only one 
she had ever had taken, showing her in all the innocent beauty 
of her maidenhood, the other of myself, taken in France, which 
against my will Grandmother had managed to convey to him. 
On the back of each of them was written, in his hand- writing: — 
“I have kissed this picture to shreds. They do not know. 
God knows.” 

For me, those are his Last Words. 


CHAPTER XLIV: CHRISTMAS NIGHT 


In the slow weeks that followed my Grandmother’s death I 
never came face to face with my own sorrow. My brain told 
me the sorrow was there, but my will, reinforced by a numb- 
ness that possessed my spirit, forbade my facing or feeling it. 
Never did I dare to summon the vision. It was mockery. It 
had been a mockery all through. 

But the soul lives on, leaves death behind, is the same for 
ever: can we not be together still, Robbie on the other side 
of death, Mary on this? The notion came fearfully at first, 
then boldlier. Dare I try to discover? Does God permit us 
to love across the grave? — Even so, in my innermost heart, 
I knew that a love which could bridge the gulf would still be 
a love not quite completed, since not completed and perfected 
between us both together here on earth. — Could I then bring 
him back to life? Instinct intimated and Prayer confirmed. 
On Christmas Night, now two or three weeks ahead, I would 
seek him just as before. Till then I must possess my soul in 
emptiness. 

The literal loneliness of the dead house helped to hush my 
spirit. There were still some years of the lease of Number 
Eight to run; I decided for the present to live on there, ab- 
solutely alone. With Grandmother’s and Aunt Jael’s income 
— all of which save a small legacy to Aunt Martha from 
the former came to me — added to the little fortune that Great- 
Uncle John had left me, I was now a young woman of inde- 
pendent means. How different was realization from antici- 
pation. Money could buy me everything, save the only thing 
in heaven or earth I wanted. Independence liberated me to 
roam throughout the world, and I remained desolate in this 
mournful forbidding house, the slave of my sick heart’s mem- 
ories and desires. Sister Briggs continued to come in for 
the mornings, to help me with the housework and in the 
kitchen. I had no plans, and, if Christmas failed me, no 
hopes. I was in a kind of spiritual stupor; I was but half 

434 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 435 

alive. I had nothing to live for, and no hope to seek from 
death. Death, and then some other existence: but always 
life — always a Me. 

There was, however, at moments, a certain mystical freedom 
of spirit in this cloistral utter loneliness. After about half- 
past one, when she had washed up the dinner things, I knew 
that I was rid of Sister Briggs until the morrow, and I could 
fill the desolate house with myself. I would wander from 
empty room to empty room, sit for half-an-hour here, half-an- 
hour there, pray, read, talk to myself, meditate, most often do 
nothing at all. 

Aunt Jael’s front parlour I still shunned, except when the 
blinds were up and in the broadest daylight, for Benamuckee’s 
eyes could still move, his face still leer. A heathen image, 
which men in savage forests have worshipped and sacrificed 
to, can never be quite inanimate wood or stone. The Devil is 
alive in his likenesses on earth. 

The sound of my own voice in the silent echoing rooms 
brought me time after time to the verge of the old Expecta- 
tion. I would shout, cry aloud; till the mystery of self was 
almost discovered, and I ceased praying to God. He was too 
near. 

One day the noise of shouts and supplications brought the 
next-door neighbour — that same clergyman who that far-off 
vinous day had been drawn by Aunt Jael’s agonies — knocking 
at the door. 

“Er — excuse me. Is any one ill? I fancied I heard 
cries — ” 

“Thank you. I am not ill. I am crying to God. Thank 
you all the same. Good-morning.” 

The healing power of the Church of England as by law estab- 
lished stops short at saner souls than mine. He skedaddled 
with Pilate gesture down the garden path. He had flushed 
when I used the word God. 

Thus in prayer and madness and reading of the Word I 
panned out the weeks till Christmas. Once or twice I sought 
to recover the ancient Rapture of the Lord’s Presence. But 
at the approaching moment a voice always intervened: The 
Great Happiness is coming back to you, but in some other 
way. He that loveth not knoweth not God: for God is Love. 


436 


MARY LEE 


No man hath seen God at any time. But when perfect love 
for another human soul shall be perfected in you, then God, 
more rapturously than at Jordan, will enter your soul, and 
dwell within you for ever. 

What other way? It could only be Christmas. 

Christmas came, announced by the calendar but by no 
other outward sign, unless it was that Sister Briggs left be- 
fore instead of after dinner. The silence was stranger, more 
complete than ever. Through all the afternoon and evening 
I read, to prevent myself hoping. As I turned over pages 
of print, staring uncomprehendingly, one question absorbed 
all my being: I did not consciously think of it, for it was 
myself, all of myself, and the brain cannot think of the soul: 
Can love then bridge the grave? 

Suddenly, late in the afternoon, as dusk was turning to dark- 
ness, an insane notion stormed my brain, which woke at once 
to feverish activity. 

I had only Aunt Martha’s word for it. Her information 
came certainly from Uncle Simeon, Uncle Simeon was a liar, 
a cur, a cruel scoundrel. He had invented that Robbie was 
dead, had lied to Aunt Martha, knowing that she would convey 
the lie to me, knowing how it would afflict me. Robbie was 
alive, alive! Why had it not struck me before? My heart 
fainted with hope. I prayed God that he would make me 
unconscious till midnight, for I did not know how I could 
live through those waiting hours. 

Live somehow I did. There was even time for Doubt to 
raise his unwearying head. He was dead after all : what reason 
had Uncle Simeon had to lie, who could never have really 
divined what Robbie was to me? And if he were dead, Oh 
Christ, was it possible he could come to me? 

After supper I went upstairs to bed. There was a bright 
moon. I pulled the curtains wide from the window that the 
room might be filled with moonlight as the Torribridge room 
eleven years before. 

I sat up in bed and prayed God passionately to be merciful, 
to deal with me lovingly: to send me Robbie, whether from 
this world or the next. 

Imperceptibly, in the luminous silence, the spiritual slug- 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT 437 

gishness of the latter days disappeared; physical being fell 
from me like a cloak; my mind became clear and radiant, 
my heart breathless with hope. Faith possessed me, and as 
I prayed, I waited. 

There was a soft tread in the room: I knew whose, should 
know it at the end of Eternity. There was no terror in me 
this time, no dreadful thought that it might be Uncle Simeon. 
Nor was there any soul’s illusion, as in the hundred other 
times the need of my heart and the power of my imagination 
had created his presence. For the little white nightgowned 
figure standing at the door was there, in plain reality, as he 
had been at the Torribridge door eleven years before. 

And now, in this moment when the actual physical presence 
I had for ever prayed and longed for was achieved, the whole 
structure of my love collapsed. A disappointment too sud- 
den, too infinite to bear, filled my heart, from which the 
life seemed to be ebbing away. I understood the difference 
between the child I had loved on the Torribridge night, and 
the vision I had built with my love. One was dead and re- 
turned to earth for a moment, the other had never lived ex- 
cept in my heart. I was a woman, this was a little boy. 

At the supernatural fact of his resurrection for this night 
I never stopped to marvel: only at my own folly in not having 
paused to think that the physical shape of Robbie returning 
to earth must needs be the physical shape in which he had 
left it. I was a woman, this was a little boy. 

The vision had been real, but it was not Robbie. My heart 
still loved the darling of its dreams, but my darling was 
not Robbie. 

“I cannot come nearer, Mary,” he said softly, and at the 
sound of his remembered voice my pulse beat faster, and life 
flowed back into my heart, and my child’s love in its first 
simplicity, without the added passion of the years, came back 
to me again. “I have returned for a moment only. Do 
not grieve because God did not let me grow to be a man on 
earth below. I loved you that happy once, and I love you 
still. Do not think, dear, that because I had gone to Heaven, 
all the times you have called for me since, and when I have 
come to you, have not been true. Each time you have called 
I have answered you in Heaven. Each time my spirit has 


438 


MARY LEE 

been with you. But God never meant me for this world: 
He never meant me to be His this-world’s love for you. Your 
happiness is coming.” 

“When, Robbie? How?” 

“Very soon. You will see. You will be very happy.” 
“Come nearer, and kiss me Good-bye.” 

“No, Mary; you are a living woman, and I am a little boy 
whose life was long ago. He will kiss you.” 

I watched the white form dissolve in the moonlight. I knew 
the room was empty. The crystal clearness of my heart was 
suddenly dimmed. The cloak of physical existence once more 
enveloped my soul. I was back in the world. 


CHAPTER XLV: WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID 


At my Grandmother’s funeral Lord Tawborough had said: 
“Miss Traies, if ever you need any advice or service of any 
kind, write and let me know, will you? It is the only kind- 
ness I would presume to ask.” On the morrow of Christmas 
Night I thought often — only — of these words. I did not write. 
Something told me that I had no need to. 

The whole of that wintry morrow I was alone in the cold 
house. Even for Sister Briggs it was Boxing-Day: I had 
told her to take advantage of a day that even for oilmen (and 
Christians) should he a holiday, and to stay at home with 
her husband, as I could very well fend for myself. 

I waited. It was foolish, impossible, one more Maryish 
notion of magic, madness, moonshine. It was possible, prob- 
able, inevitable, immediate. 

The bell rang; with clamant heart and hurrying feet I 
sped to the door. 

There were preliminary embarrassments and explanations. 
Trivial matters, to which we both gave grateful over-measure 
of zeal and zest, filled the awkwardest first moments, tided 
them capably over. ‘The snow on your coat: I must dry 
it” — “May the coachman come in and wait? The weather 
is bad” — “Certainly, there is the kitchen fire: for coat and 
coachman too” — “Thank you” — “I will get you a cup of tea.” 

We did not look at each other. In the dining-room we 
continued to speak of trifles, pouncing with eager dexterity and 
emulous speed upon any sudden silence that showed its 
head. Covertly once or twice I dared to look at the well- 
remembered face : fed swiftly on the manliness, the gentleness ; 
the proud grey hair, the noble forehead, the charitable eyes; 
the mouth. My heart beat tempestuously. 

Then God, in His Goodness, performed a miracle within me. 

The mystical delight seized me. As on Jordan morning, 
I knew I should reach the Rapture. All love was one, and 
the Stranger was my Robbie. His face was the face of my 

439 


440 


MARY LEE 


visions, the face I had called Robbie’s, that was not Robbie’s. 
I knew that all the torrential affection which in dream and 
diary I had poured forth upon my vision, had been for my 
Love who stood before me now. The magical moment for 
which I had been born was at last upon me — oh, hope too 
hard to bear — but he must speak the word. He alone could 
complete the miracle, fulfil the hope, carry love’s banners 
to their ultimate victory in my heart. 

The silences grew longer and more shameless. My heart 
throbbed, my body trembled, my spirit was faint with ex- 
pectation. He got up from his chair and began pacing up 
and down the room, talking of something, talking of nothing, 
moistening his parched lips, seeking through moments of un- 
bearable longing for the words that would not come. 

At this moment of time, which is present in my heart more 
clearly than any other of the memorable moments I have 
tried to describe in this record of twenty-two years, I was 
sitting on the old horsehair Chesterfield couch against the 
window; around me were the familiar objects of this chielly 
familiar room — Aunt Jael’s traditional chair, and my Grand- 
mother’s; the faded rosewood piano, the ancient chiffonier, 
the odour of my childhood, the taste of religion and many 
meals, the all-pervading gloom. God was everywhere around 
me, the God of my childhood, the God of Beatings. 

He stopped in his pacing up and down. I knew that his 
heart had stopped. His voice was husky, faint with passion 
and hope and fear. 

“Miss Traies, may I ask you a question?” 

I could not look up. My heart was near breaking point. 
I could not speak. Perhaps I nodded. 

“Will you — promise me this? That if the answer to the 
question is ‘No,’ you will forgive me for having asked it, 
and like and respect me not less well than now?” 

This longer sentence came a little more easily: words gave 
courage to each other. The first question had been harder; 
though the hardest was yet to come. 

“What-is-the-question?” I still looked downwards. My 
voice was as husky as his, my heart as hungry. 

“You know it.” 


WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID 


441 


“What-is-the-question?” repeated obstinately, mechanically, 
and because — for one-millionth part — I was not sure. I knew 
the question, my heart had answered it already; but I was 
a woman, and my mouth could not speak for my heart till the 
man had achieved his task — found his mouth courage to speak 
for his heart. I knew, my heart knew; but my brain waited 
for the serene absolute certainty which his words alone 
could give. To complete the miracle this word was needed. 

“What-is-the-question?” I repeated mechanically. 

His heart stopped again for the last effort, the ultimate 
moment of life. “Will you — once — one time only — before 
you go abroad again — before I am old — one single time — ” 
(how T fondly each poor broken conciliatory qualification 
seemed to ease his task, break his amorous fall, make easier 
my way to the answer his soul sought ) — (i kiss me ?” 

A spasm of spiritual joy went through me from head to foot. 
His soul was mine, and mine was his: we were one soul, one 
double-soul inhabiting each body. 

The winter was past, the rain was over and gone. 

“Yes,” I whispered. My voice was unsure, my eyes were 
filled with tears of happiness, my heart was fondling the two 
flawless words with which he had transformed me. 

More bravely, easily, surely: “When?” 

“Soon.” 

“Very soon?” 

“Now.” 

He came swiftly to me, his arms were round me, our mouths 
were together in a tender infinite embrace. My soul and body 
were singing. Love, garlanded with lilies, marched with God’s 
paradisal banner of Perfect Happiness through all my heart. 

He was kneeling by my side. His head was against my 
breast. I was kissing his hair, brushing my lips across his 
eyes. 

After a very long while I spoke. My voice fell strangely 
and softly upon my own ears. My new heart had fashioned 
me a new voice worthy to do its bidding. 

“Oh my dear, unhappiness is gone for ever. Now I am full 
of joy. You are near, you are completely in understanding. 
Look me in the eyes, dear; tell me it is not a dream.” 


442 


MARY LEE 


“Mary, it is a dream. Today I have passed out of a land 
of unreality into one of wonderful dreams. Now I am part 
of another, my soul is part of hers, and can never be torn 
away. Time cannot do it, and what is more powerful than 
time?” 

“Eternity,” I said. 

And I found as I uttered that word, that for the first time it 
held no terror. 






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